


Faith in Humanity

by PanicPixieDreamGirl



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi), Spider-Man - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-06
Updated: 2008-06-06
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 46
Words: 75,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16012559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanicPixieDreamGirl/pseuds/PanicPixieDreamGirl
Summary: Harry has daddy issues and a minor Oedipal complex. MJ has a boyfriend she doesn't quite love. Peter is...well, still Spider-Man. Things progress towards tragedy in roughly the direction you'd expect.(Or, unseen puzzle pieces from all three movies.)





	1. PROLOGUE

_The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb_

_Foreword_

The facts are these:

At some point in the year 2002, a person developed powers beyond the realm of the ordinary, concealed his face with a mask, and took to the streets of New York. To this day he is protector of the city and all those who live there- a superpowered, highly efficient policeman, if you will. He is also the subject of a great deal of controversy: he has been used to push every agenda under the sun. One minute he's a terrorist, the next a victim of society, the next an all-American hero. If you'll excuse the cliche- some hate him, some love him, but everyone needs him- even if they only need him in order to shift a few more books or newspapers.

Virtually nothing is known about him. It is commonly accepted that he is male- he goes by the name Spider-Man, after all- and probably American. But as for race or religion, the world has no idea.

No-one knows where he was born, where he went to school, who his parents were. He is arguably the most important figure of the twenty-first century, and yet nobody knows his name. He could be the man sitting opposite you on the subway, or the quiet kid at the back of your college class. He could be anybody you brush past in the city.

Perhaps it is this that makes him a symbol to so many people.

*  
  
18th December 2002

_I have done nothing to require asking for forgiveness for_

Christine Steinhauer walked slowly through the streets of New York, oblivious to everything around her, writing a letter in her head.

She hadn't taken a taxi because she couldn't afford one, and she was cold. She couldn't afford a decent coat either. Every last cent these days went on her husband's medication, and she did not complain. She would not complain either about not having Christmas lights, or Christmas presents, or her only child around to celebrate with her. She was not the complaining kind.

_and all I want is to talk, I know we can talk this over, alright?_

She turned the corner. She was in a rich part of town, and she felt oddly intimidated. She looked up at the towering penthouses, feeling awfully small, and consulted her hastily scrawled map. As she did, it began to snow, and she suddenly felt almost like crying. Even the weather was against her.

_we've all said things we didn't mean_

Brushing the snow out of her hair, she continued. She trudged down the road, keeping one eye on the map, and finally she spied her destination. She stopped, stood in the snow, and looked at it.

A colossial house yawned out of the ground, black against the increasing whiteness. It was the one other thing that looked out of place in the area, the other, of course, being Christine herself. It looked haunted, and _old_ , like it outdated even the city. It looked, in fact, not unlike the traditional haunted house.

There was a discomforting flicker at the back of her mind, an uneasy feeling. She had read the stories, after all, the inhabitants and former inhabitants of this house constantly made headlines. Of course, this house was the answer to at least one of her problems: being a housekeeper would pay well and ensure her some security- but it seemed to tower over her, serene and silent in the snow, threatening to make her and all her troubles insignificant. Threatening to...

To...

 _and all I want you to do is come home, son, please come home,_ said the letter-writer in her head.

Christine sighed, shook the snow from her hair again, and started to walk down the path to the Osborn manor.

_*_

Emily David's Diary, 15th August 1972:

This is my story.

I'm seventeen years old. Right now I'm engaged to be married- I might be in love with him or I might not, but my family insists it doesn't matter, seeing as he's got money and we haven't. He's charismatic- charismatic and charming and very very rich, and it was him who proposed to me, down on one knee and everything.

That sounds strange in my head. I want to be an actress, you know. Or...well, I actually think I could do anything I wanted, arrogant as that sounds. I was always good at metalwork, and science, and I love to write. Everyone says married women should, you know, settle down, but I don't want to. I would like a kid, though, although just one will do.

This bit of writing sounds very...stilted. Sorry. I just bought this diary, for two dollars, and it's my first time keeping one. Maybe I should talk about myself.

Here's the most important thing then. When I was thirteen years old my father was murdered. Nothing big and dramatic: he was walking home one night and a gang of teenagers jumped him, shot him, and took his wallet and suitcase. Just a bunch of crazy drunk kids. They were sent to prison. A couple of them were released a few years later: felt like someone'd punched me in the chest. Anyway.

It destroyed my life for a bit, really. I'd wake up wishing with all my heart that it had been someone else walking down the street that night, that someone else had been shot in the head. It sounds selfish, but you would think the same if it happened to you. If I didn't wish that, I'd wish someone had been there, to beat those bastards into oblivion before they hurt my father or anybody else.

In truth- I think I'm getting married because I want some sort of hero. You know, someone to look after me and distract me from nasty deaths, bullets to the head, and things lurking in street corners. On the other hand- Jesus Christ, look at the world! Doesn't everyone want to Do Something About It? I'd rather _be_ some sort of hero, I think.

I wonder if that's a good thing to aspire to.

*

18th December 2002

Realising you have to become a murderer is generally a disturbing thing to realise, even if you've known it at the back of your mind for weeks. It occured to Harry Osborn when he was doing the same thing that he now did every morning: standing at the window looking out for Spider-Man. Exactly what he would do when he saw him he had no idea - he had a gun, but he wasn't about to shoot it out a window - but he had to do something. It was a quiet suggestion at the back of his head: an eye for an eye and all that.

He backed away from the window, quite quickly, as if suddenly afraid of his reflection in it. He sat on the sofa, and picked up the answering machine which lay on the table next to it.

"I'm not here right now," said his father's voice. "Please leave a message." And that was it. Harry briefly considered leaving a message, but of course nobody would hear. And he'd only end up screaming into the phone, or smashing it on the wall, or something crazy like that.

"Sir," someone said from the doorway. Harry jumped. He'd been lost in thought- and it sounded completely wrong for anyone to address him as 'sir', as well. He was still a kid, and now he was an orphan as well, and he wanted to run away and hide.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Interviews today, sir. For a new housekeeper." It was a man called Bernard- the old butler who haunted the place.

"Oh." Harry said flatly. He had no idea how to handle something even as simple as interviewing. "What, you mean someone's here already?"

"Yes, sir. One middle-aged woman."

"Oh. Um, send her in."

"Yes, sir." Harry might have imagined it, but there seemed to be pity in his voice. Of course, he had no idea what to do about that, either. His father might have said something about 'demanding respect', but he just plain didn't feel like it.

Bernard left, and Harry was left alone in his thoughts again. He carefully put the answering machine back on the table, and went to the window.

 _I'm not here right now_ , he thought. _Please leave a message._

*

Emily David's Diary, 24th August 1972:

Whenever I read a published diary I wonder if the person writing it knew, somewhere in the back of their mind, that other people would read it. If they were careful with what they wrote in the diary, because they didn't want to sound like an idiot to their future readers. I'd love it if someday somebody found this diary, actually, although of course I've barely written in it. I think that's my natural desire to show off, though.

I think I'm a good writer. I wrote a play once, and some poems, and I once got a science-fiction story published in a magazine. I was proud of that one, although it was a long time ago and I've gotten much better since then. Perhaps many years in the future (when this diary is found) I will be a famous writer, or a famous actress, or a famous anything. Perhaps I will find a cure for the common cold, or help with world peace, or make some great scientific discovery.

Do you hear that, dear reader? Perhaps the world you're living in is a different place because of me.

*

18th December 2002

Christine glanced around the house's interior: it was all dark greens, browns and blacks, like the inside of a fantasy forest. _It's not so bad_ , she thought. It was only the masks, three of them hung up on the wall, that unnerved her. She kept her eyes diverted, but the butler noticed her discomfort.

"The former master collected masks," he said. "Nice, aren't they?"

"Yes," Christine said, not wanting to give the wrong impression.

"Please take a seat," he said, and she did. "I'll find the master of the house."

 _The master of the house- that doesn't sound intimidating at all_ , she thought. The man left the room, leaving her alone, and Christine glanced around. The house reminded her, she thought, of the classic gothic tower- something straight out of _Beauty and the Beast_ , or the pages of a darker fairytale.

The door creaked open, and the butler returned.

"Please go in," he said. Warily, Christine went through the door, and the butler followed.

Standing in the room was a young man. Or, to be more accurate, a teenage boy. He looked no older than her son- she thought this with a pang of something not unlike grief- and he had a frown on his face, and a gloomy look in his eyes.

 _lost his father last month_ , Christine's mind filled in. _he was killed, wasn't he killed by-_

"Mrs Steinhauer? Harry Osborn." the butler said, and slid back through the door. Christine hastily stood up and offered her hand.

"I saw the ad in the paper-"

"I think you're the only one who did," he answered. She handed him a folder, and he started to look absently through it. "No-one else applied."

"So I get the job by default?" she asked, trying to keep the relief out of her voice.

"I guess," he said, in a thin voice. "Yeah. I guess you do. Everything seems in order." He handed the folder back to her.

"When do I start?" Christine asked.

"Today, if you can," he answered. "I'll show you around."

*

He led her on a brief tour of the house: the bathrooms first (there were three), the kitchen, the storecupboards, and a few other miscellanous rooms which she suspected were originally intended as servant's living quarters. There were three bedrooms: all of them remained closed- and then there was the study, and the balcony, and the living room. It was that which impressed her most: it was filled with ornaments and portraits and leather seats, all beautifully crafted and arranged. A full-length antique mirror stood on one side of the room, and the walls were decorated with masks. It reminded her a little of a museum.

She couldn't imagine anyone actually _living_ in the place.

She stared thoughtfully up at the masks, wondering who on earth would want to collect such things. They gave the room more of an unfriendly feel than it might have otherwise had.

"That's everything," Harry said. "Any questions?"

Christine shook her head. "The house is lovely," she said, because she felt she ought to say something. In truth, it was giving her the creeps in a way she couldn't quite put her finger on. "What shall I do first?"

"Tidy up the furniture," he said, in a voice that sounded unaccustomed to giving orders. "And vacuum the floors."

"Okay," she said.

"I'll be in my bedroom," he said, sounding like a kid. Which was pretty much what he was, after all. "Ask Bernard- the butler- if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay," she said again. And then he left, and she was left standing alone in the room. For one brief second she felt incredibly intimidated, as if everything in the room was judging her, but she shook it off, and went to find the vacuum cleaner.

*

Christine tidied and vacuumed the huge room, moving around carefully, as everything there probably cost more than a month's wages for her. She drafted and redrafted the letter in her head as she worked, although she knew that sending one simple letter was not likely to solve any problems.

_come home_

She got to work polishing the frame of one of the portraits, and she couldn't help but examine it more closely. It was of a thin, brown-haired woman in a black dress, staring off into the distance. Looking at something or someone out of the frame, maybe. She had an odd expression on her face, Christine thought. Sort of half gentle smile and half worried frown.

 _come home please come home_ , she wrote in her head, disconnecting again from reality.

She finished her work, and put her equipment away, and left the room. Now that she had spent some time there it didn't seem quite as unfriendly, or as haunted. Not that it really mattered when it came down to it, she reflected. She would happily brave a haunted house in exchange for the money she badly needed. The money would buy medicine and doctors, and a slim chance that her husband would be all right after all.

A slim chance.

It was only when she went past the mirror that she felt a sudden chill, but in her state of mind she mistook it for mere worry.  
 


	2. AFTERMATH

29th November 2002

Ursula Ditkovich sat in front of the television, a pen posed over a small purple book in her lap. It was November 30th, it was cold enough to snow, and the city was alive with fear or wonder or panic or _something_.

But she wasn't out in the city. She was inside. She had been inside for hours, ever since the hostage situation had come up- she had turned on the TV to see what was going on, and stayed there. She could have ran outside, hailed a cab, gone to the bridge- but she hadn't. She had been too...

...afraid. Although she hated to admit it. Or hated to admit it out loud.

 _I was afraid,_ she wrote in her diary. _Sort of. Just because lots of people were in trouble, and lots of people could have died, and they probably would have done if Spider-Man hadn't saved them. Anyway. It's all over now._

She stared distractedly out of the window.

_Diary. I really wish something would happen to me. Something big and exciting and important. I don't know what, but I want it so bad. It's like I'm staring at the television screen and it's all in there instead. All of the important stuff is hiding in there. None of it feels real. I mean...actually, no._

_Either it doesn't feel real, or I don't._

She sighed. She was just having a brief moment of unhappiness- she knew it would pass. But the moments, they always caught her at inconvenient times. Like when an armoured madman had taken a cable car hostage and fought with Spider-Man above the Queensboro bridge.

She resumed writing.

_No, wait. I...don't know. Let's leave it at that. I just wish I had gone to the bridge, seen it for myself. The TV said people were throwing stuff at the Green Goblin, and I wish I'd done that, too. But I didn't, and I guess that's the end of it._

She reached out and switched the television off. The room went very quiet.

_I wouldn't, would I? If it happened again. I'd just stay here._

_I don't...you know...I've got no faith in myself anymore._


	3. AFTERMATH part 1

1st December 2002:

Houses aren't the only things that get haunted.

_I didn't mean to it was an accident it was your fault this is your fault_

His nightmares came in blue and red. This one was all red: there had been a lot of blood, after all.

_how can you say not to tell this is your fault what have you DONE_

There was the horrible sound of something sharp coming out of flesh, and approaching sirens in the distance, and ringing in the ears. Footsteps, panicked breathing-

_I have done nothing to require asking for forgiveness for-_

Spider-Man, otherwise known as Peter Parker, woke up. He shook his head to clear it, looked around dizzily, and promptly fell off the bed. From his new position on the floor he considered the fact that that had been at least his fifth nightmare since That Night, and if they continued he would go crazy.

He stumbled around the room, taking off his pyjamas and replacing them with his red-and-blue costume. Over that he put his street clothes, and then he took a look at himself in the mirror. He looked perfectly ordinary, and he would have felt perfectly ordinary if not for the voices flickering in his head.

_this is your fault this is your fault this is my fault_

He sighed. He went to the cupboard on the other side of the room, and removed a small box. The box had belonged to his uncle, it now belonged to him, and sitting inside when he unlocked it were four Spider-Man masks. He put one on.

_this is my fault-_

He took it off again.

He remained staring into the mirror for a very long time.

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb:

The sudden and shocking appearance of a geniune Superhuman had predictable, in a way, consequences for the world. It shook the fields of science and politics to their very foundations. How does a human being develop the power to lift cars and stick to walls? And how does one country convince another that they will not use said human being as a weapon? Even today the answers to these questions are only vaguely sketched.

Then, of course, we reach the difficult cases of such figures as the Green Goblin, the Sandman, and Doctor Octopus. The last's identity is confirmed and known by most: Dr Otto Octavius, a scientist and specialist in fusion. He is now dead. The Goblin we will cover in chapter three. All these characters posed clear threats to the people of New York- all the public confrontations that they were involved in nearly led to tragedy. How, then, does a figure of authority convince others that these other, clearly dangerous Superhumans will be kept in check? How does a President convince the world?

...The truth- harsh as it may be- is simply that very few reasonable measures could be taken. Take the Green Goblin as an example- he wore bulletproof armour, carried explosives, and had superhuman strength. No-one knew his real identity- he was a man virtually impossible to arrest. Other suggestions for taking him out of the picture smack of desperation- anti-aircraft missiles, specially designed bullets- but the question still remains: if a Superhuman chooses to behave in a negative manner, then what can be done? Are the normal justice procedures still applicable? What does one do with a person who can hold up cable cars?

Though I discussed these issues in the first edition of my book, there will always be more points to be made about the subject, and perhaps we will never know the answers to all of our questions...

*

1st December 2002:

Mary Jane Watson opened her eyes.

She was mildly surprised to find herself mostly alone. She had awoken once to find a small gang of journalists standing by her hospital bed (they had retreated as soon as she had begun screaming) and the previous night she had awoken in a cold sweat, convinced something terrible was lurking in the corridor and coming to get her. It had happened once already, after all. There were only two people whom she badly wanted to see- one of them in particular- and neither of them had even phoned her yet. She had spent many long hours worrying about why they hadn't: things were about to be explained.

Her mother was in the room, looking down at her. She had a pinched, worried look about her, and a newspaper was sticking out of her bag.

MJ sat up. "Hey, Mom," she said, but she got only a smile in return. Her mother fished the newspaper out of her bag, holding it out of reach.

"I brought you another newspaper, dear."

"Thanks," MJ said. "Am I mentioned anywhere?"

"Only a couple of times, dear, and not by name. You're 'the victim'."

 _Well, that's just great,_ she thought. Out loud she said, "Well, can I have it?"

But her mother still held it out of reach. "I think there may be...something you should know, darling. You see," and now Mary Jane was starting to feel worried herself, "you remember young Harry Osborn?"

"Mum, of course I remember him, I dated him-"

"Well-"

She was suddenly afraid. "Nothing's happened to him, has it?"

"Well," her mother said again, and handed her the newspaper. Mary Jane took it, not sure whether she should read it right away and as fast as she could, or wait for just a second - but whatever she decided on, her eyes were way ahead of her, and she saw the headline.

DEATH OF MILLIONAIRE BUSINESSMAN; SPIDER-MAN PRIME SUSPECT

She hastily scanned the rest of it: Harry was fine...he'd seen Spider-Man walking in with his father's body, apparently...okay, maybe he wasn't _fine_ , but he wasn't hurt or anything...it had happened a couple of nights ago but had escaped widespread attention due to the super-powered battle she had recently been a witness to. And Harry was 'being comforted by friends', so that was why he and Peter hadn't come right away...

"Oh God..." Mary Jane murmured. Then she folded the newspaper. "It couldn't have been Spider-Man who did it. It just couldn't have been."

"Well, dear," her mother said, in her quiet voice, "I'll always be grateful to him... _very_ grateful to him, for saving you- but nobody's _all_ good..."

"It couldn't have been him," Mary Jane repeated. She glanced down at the newspaper again. "Look, it says no-one saw him actually _killing_ him...not stabbing him or anything..."

"They found stab wounds on the body."

"But they don't know who made them! It was..." Suddenly she was sure she knew the answer, and couldn't understand why no-one else had. "Of _course_! Maybe the Green Goblin took him...was holding him hostage or something...and then killed him, and Spider-Man thought he'd better return the body, because he _would_ -" She was shouting now, and her mother motioned for her to be quiet. "Yes," she said thoughtfully. "That's what the papers think..."

"I have to go and see Harry."

"No, dear. You'll probably be let out tomorrow, but you can't just get out of bed. You can phone."

So as soon as her mother left, she did. Norman Osborn's voice, on the answering machine, greeted her.

*

The Daily Bugle, 30th November 2002:

It is CLEAR to this editor that this most recent incident ends the controversy over Spider-Man once and for all. What man, when confronted over the dead body he is holding, _turns and runs_? Unless, of course, he was the murderer- so it should be clear to anyone with an ounce of intelligence that Spider-Man at least had a hand in Norman Osborn's death, even if he did not deliever the fatal blow himself. In no way was he an innocent bystander returning a corpse to family members; the very idea is laughable.

Photographic evidence makes it clear that the glider used by the Green Goblin was the same one mysteriously stolen from Oscorp Industries at the beginning of the year: to this editor, the events leading to Osborn's death on the same night as the Bridge Incident seem obvious. Spider-Man and the Goblin have been working together all this time- it is beyond the realms of all rational thought to assume that two superpowered human beings will suddenly unleash themselves on the world _seperately_ within weeks of each other- and clearly they decided that ransacking the country's foremost military contractor was a good idea. Gradually the two of them turn against each other- since neither of them seem pocessed of an entirely civilised mind- and this is what leads to the near-tragedy at the bridge. Osborn is murdered that same night merely because- having failed in his attempt to kill his rival- Spider-Man returns to help himself to whatever weapons are lying around. Osborn- a man known to spend virtually all his time in the office- catches him in the act, and is murdered for his trouble. In an act of pure vindictiveness, Spider-Man returns the body to his victim's family: _this is what you get when you mess with us._

It is downright WRONG to suggest, as some have been doing, that Osborn was in way helping or connected to the Goblin: the glider was _stolen_ , and besides that there is not a shred of evidence, other than the fact that one died on a night when the other was flying through the sky attempting to murder women and children. It is downright _offensive_ to claim that a prominent, upstanding, recently murdered citizen had befriended a monster and indulged in criminal activity- especially when his child is still very much alive and reading newspapers!

And lastly, there is this compelling titbit dug up by YOURS TRULY- the unnamed young victim taken hostage at the Queensboro bridge allegedly had a brief relationship with Norman Osborn's teenage son Harry, barely a month before she nearly met her doom. There is footage of the two of them at the World Unity Festival. Did she perhaps have a bigger part in the drama than any of us realised? Perhaps we shall never know- the young lady refuses to give interviews- but surely it cannot be mere coincidence.

*

4th December 2003:

Mary Jane had been released from hospital on the 2nd December, and since returning to her home she hadn't dared venture out of it. It wasn't due to any fear of supervillains or monsters, but just the fact that now every single person in the neighbourhood knew what had happened to her. Things were made a hundred times worse by the fact that someone...she suspected it was her father, in fact, she _knew_ it was her father...had sent a photograph of her at her graduation to the _Daily Bugle_. So now almost everyone had an image of her in the back of their mind. She desperately hoped people would forget about it soon- she thought she might well dye her hair, put it back to a more natural colour, in order to help things along.

But finally she had gathered her courage and gone Christmas shopping. The world felt strange to her as she battled with the crowds and breathed the cold air: the lights seemed brighter, the people seemed happier. More Christmas spirit in the air. _This must be how everyone feels,_ she thought, _once they've avoided death_. She paused for one split second on the streets- no-one seemed to notice- and glanced at the sky. Nothing was coming out of it to blow the ground apart.

The word _Victim_ flickered in her head.

 _Stupid_ , she thought back. _It could have happened to anyone._

 _Yeah, it could. So why you?_ And that stopped her dead.

Why her, indeed? A monster running loose in town- it came to _her_? Why? What was important, special, about her?

She resumed walking, heading for the electronics shop on the corner, barely thinking about where her feet were going. _Why her?_ She took a deep breath and went over the facts in her head. Spider-Man had been at the bridge; she had been kidnapped by the Goblin; the two were obviously enemies. She had recently kissed Spider-Man, in an alleyway, in plain view of, say, someone watching from the rooftops. Obviously, what had happened was...

_...the woman you love!_

She felt suddenly like crying, but held it back. She pinched her nose, blinked, and continued on her way. She would deal with this later, work out what she thought about it, maybe even talk about it, but she _couldn't_ do it now. She made it to the electronics shop and bought a nice camera for Peter's Christmas present, and then went home. She let herself in, sank down on the sofa, and cried. Only for a minute or so, however- there was a note left on the arm of the sofa for her. She picked it up and read it, drying off her tears.

_Peter from next door called. He wants to know how you are. Says he's sorry he didn't call before, he's been busy, with his aunt & things. Says tomorrow he's going to Norman Osborn's funeral, will understand if you're not going._

_-Mom_

Peter's aunt! In all the chaos, she'd forgotten about that. Last time she'd seen the woman she'd been in hospital, and now, with a sick feeling rising in her stomach, she knew why. The night after the Goblin had gone to the Parker's house, he'd gone right to hers, so...wrong house first time. And a lovely old lady could have been killed because of it. Dear god, what world had she suddenly found herself in? Suddenly there were _monsters_ right on her doorstep.

She took a deep breath. _Well, there's no monsters there now, kid. Pick yourself up._

She picked herself up, and went upstairs. She went through her wardrobe, pulled out all the black clothes, and dropped them on a pile on the floor. She heard her mother closing the front door downstairs, and dropping shopping bags on the floor.

"MJ?" she called worriedly.

"I'm here." MJ called downstairs. She pulled one of the dresses out of the pile.

_...why didn't you wear the black dress? My father loves black._

She changed into it and examined her reflection in the mirror. It was a pretty dress, but it also looked like it was designed exclusively for funerals. It belonged on the body of someone who'd given in to grieving. She made a mental note to discard of it as soon as the funeral was done: she didn't plan to give into anything, and hoped and prayed she wouldn't.

She went downstairs.

"Mom?" she said. "I'm wearing this to the funeral."

"You're going, then, dear?" her mother asked. She still had a worried look in her eyes, and MJ understood why.

"I'll be fine, Mom. I'm only going because of Harry and Peter, and I won't go out for a drink or anything. I'll come right back home."

"You can go where you want," her mother said quietly. "You're a grown woman."

"Mom..."

MJ gave her a quick, slightly awkward hug. Madeline Watson stared at her, seemingly now on the verge of tears.

"You've creased your dress," she said.

MJ smoothed it down. "That better?"

"Yeah."

MJ turned to go, but her mother spoke then, in a voice MJ had never heard her use.

"Mary? If I ever found the man who did that to you...took you from me, put you in hospital...I swear I would kill him."

MJ stared, half frightened and half awed.

"Okay," she whispered, and went upstairs to change.

*

The Daily Bugle, 5th December 2002:

IN OTHER NEWS: The funeral of businessman and Oscorp founder Norman Osborn took place today; there are rumours of a reward being offered for information about the circumstances of his death and Spider-Man's involvement. [see comment, page 17] A Manhattan shopkeeper who asked not be named claims to have spotted the Green Goblin on top of a building two days ago: this is just one of many claims...   
 


	4. AFTERMATH part 2

5th December 2002:

It was night- twenty past ten in the evening- when her daughter walked in, head hung. Madeline Watson breathed a deep sigh of relief, turned off the television and went to her, unsure whether to be furious or not.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

MJ said nothing. Her eyes were red and there were thin mascara streaks down her face.

"Mary, what's happened?"

"I was at a funeral, Mom, I cried." MJ said darkly. She crossed the hall and went to the stairs. Madeline followed her, annoyed now.

"Why are you back so late? It's after dark!"

"I just wandered downtown a bit," she said numbly.

"Why? MJ, what's the matter?"

"I..." she began, and then she shook her head. "Nothing, Mom. Just things."

"What things? What were you doing downtown?"

"I don't know. Just thinking, walking...looking for Spider-Man." She rubbed her face. "Mom...I'm going to bed, alright? Sorry I made you worry."

She went upstairs, head hung. Madeline watched, a dull fear taking hold of her. Maybe she should get therapy for her daughter- therapy, a doctor, anything. She'd nearly died. Oh Christ, she'd nearly died. And now she was wandering the streets looking for her saviour.

*

Light Up Broadway! magazine- Mary Jane Watson interview, November 2003:

Interviewer: So, is there a man in your life?   
Watson: Yes, there is. [laughs] There's almost always been a man in my life, really. But if it's alright, I'd rather not discuss my personal life. There's still...too many awkward things to work out, you know? So I tend to keep things to myself. I don't want to hurt anyone.

*

19th December 2002:

It was snowing outside. The window, decorated with a MERRY CHRISTMAS banner and a wreath, was covered in the stuff. It looked like a Christmas card; Peter was almost tempted to take a picture.

He wished he could sit back and just appreciate the fact that New York City was covered in snow, giving it a softness not generally associated with it, but of course he couldn't. He had a job to do.

 _It wasn't always like this._ The first Christmas after MJ's family had moved in next door, when his uncle was still alive and his family still whole, it had snowed then. He'd run into the back yard to make a snowman, and MJ had done likewise, and they'd had a snowman-building contest. Even MJ's father had been around and sober and enjoying himself on that day.

_Yeah. It was a long time ago._

He plucked his Spider-Man outfit from the wardrobe and was about to put it on when the phone rang. It made him jump. He answered it.

"Hello?"

"Peter?" It was Harry.

"Hey, Harry."

There was a rustling sound on the other end, and Peter couldn't help but wonder if he was moving piles of newspaper clippings out of the way. "I know you're almost definitely going to be busy, but I was wondering...do you want to come over to my house on Christmas Day?"

 _His house._ Harry still had half of his pocessions at the apartment, but in the past few weeks he had all but moved out. Peter couldn't fathom why. Maybe he wanted to keep company with his father's ghost. "I'm sorry, Harry. I really am. But I'm going to my aunt's house for Christmas."

"Oh." Peter knew Harry had phoned expecting to be disappointed.

"I could come on Christmas Eve," he offered.

"Okay. You do that...thanks."

"S'alright."

He hung up the phone, got changed and jumped out of the window.

*

Harry put the phone down and went back to the piles of newspapers. He had a sharp pair of scissors clutched in his hand...anything about Spider-Man he cut out and put in a drawer. There was a surprising amount of articles...well, he'd heard that the editor of the _Bugle_ had some sort of grudge against him. And hell, he wasn't the only one.

He found a report about the attack at the World Unity Festival. He'd been _there_ for that one...but he'd been lying on the ground knocked out for a good percentage of it. He wasn't sure exactly what he missed, except for Spider-Man saving Mary Jane...

Why _had_ he done that, anyway? Was it because she was Harry's girlfriend, or had been back then? That had to be it. The wallcrawler had been stalking him since day one.

He began to read the report. It began by listing the people who had died in the explosion...okay, the explosion had been the Goblin's fault, hadn't it? Something about a bomb. Two costumed murderers in one city...

Was the Goblin dead? There hadn't been any sort of offical confirmation, and there probably would never be, but there were always rumors...people said they'd seen him in alleyways, or on roofs, and there were those who claimed he'd walked into their shops and stolen things...

What strange world were they all living in?

He kept on reading. " _No-one knows where he came from, or what he wanted. This mysterious creature seemed to be neither monster nor man..._ "

Maybe the answers to all his questions were staring him in the face, and he couldn't see them.

He starting cutting things out.

*

Christmas Eve, 2002:

Peter awoke early...he always did...and sat on the bed for a few minutes. The apartment was cold. It seemed more like a stranger's home now, to be honest.

He put some toast on the toaster and got changed. The one good thing about Harry not living with him anymore (okay, there were quite a few good things about not having Harry living with him anymore, namely that he wouldn't have to listen to his vows of revenge...or guiltily listen to him crying in the night) was that he could put his costume on underneath his clothes without the fear that he'd forgotten to lock the door and Harry, or even someone else, would come barging in and see him.

He pulled his jeans and t-shirt on over the costume, and attempted to plan his day. He knew he had to go and see Harry, he'd even picked out a Christmas present for him ahead of time, but in the morning at least he ought to patrol the streets, watch for anything happening...prevent it, no matter how much of the day it took up...

He gave up soon enough. He _couldn't_ plan his day.

The toast popped out of the toaster completely and utterly burnt. Peter could only sigh. He'd just go without breakfast today.

*

The Daily Bugle, December 23rd 2002:

Spider-Man has lain low since the incident last month- after much discussion, this newspaper has decided to put out a call to all citizens. If you see the insect, CALL THE POLICE- this is the only way, it seems, that they will DO SOMETHING- when their lines are jammed with calls. Show them that New York City will not take this lying down- or do we want another incident where innocent lives are at risk?

*

Christmas Eve, 2002:

Peter had been in two minds about wearing his costume underneath his regular clothes to go to Harry's house. On the one hand, if Harry got even the tiniest hint that Peter was Spider-Man the consequences would be disasterous, but on the other hand, he was reasonably sure Harry wasn't going to try and undress him. Eventually, he put on his costume...he had a funny feeling that whatever choice he'd made, he'd have regretted it later. As it was, nothing happened on his way to Harry's house that required a costume change.

Harry's house-formerly Norman's house- made him feel inexplicably sad when he saw it. It was the kind of house that looked incredible in storms or hurricanes, but just looked just plainly desolate in the snow. It was the kind of house that _always_ had ghosts in it, whether the ghosts were noticed or not.

He wished, for about five seconds, that Harry would move back in with him.

He knocked on the front door and it was Harry, as opposed to a servant, who opened it.

"Hey, Pete," he said in a surprisingly warm tone. "I knew it'd be you."

"Hi, Harry," Peter said. "Merry Christmas,"

"It's not Christmas yet."

"Well," Peter said, "It's close enough." He followed his best friend inside. "I got you a present."

"Really?" Harry seemed surprised; maybe he'd been thinking Peter would forget. "I got you something, too. I was thinking we should have dinner first, though-"

"You made dinner?"

"Not quite," Harry grinned sheepishly. "I had it made for me. But everything else she's made tastes pretty good."

"She?"

"New housekeeper," Harry collapsed on a sofa. "So, how are things?"

"Oh...they're okay. Still need a proper job."

"Why, what are you doing now?"

Peter shrugged. "Just selling photos to the paper. You know...I've been doing it for a while. They don't pay much."

"Photos of Spider-Man, like you were doing before?"

"Erm..."

Harry was about to continue this line of conversation -Peter _knew_ he was- but suddenly it was interupted. There was a loud noise...a sort of cracking, grinding sound...which came from the mirror. Yet the mirror remained as it had been before, not cracked, not shattered...and Peter thought the word _Ghosts_.

Maybe a specific ghost.

"I hear that noise a lot," Harry said quietly. "It's just the house, doing stuff...it sounds creepy at night, though."

"Why don't you move out?" Peter asked. "I mean...move back in with me?"

Harry shook his head. "Thanks, but...no. I can run Oscorp a lot better from here than from an attic."

"Oh yeah, Oscorp...how's that going?"

For the first time a dark look spread over Harry's face. "I've been fighting to get any control of it at all. Now I know what my father went through. It wasn't easy."

Peter just waited.

"I should have realised...I should have listened."

"Harry, you've got to stop beating youself up over...well, over everything."

"But..."

"No buts."

Harry actually smiled at him. "Shall we have dinner now?"

"Okay."

*

The food was indeed very good. Peter was almost envious about getting stuck with burnt toast while Harry had this everyday. Then again, Harry also had his grief to deal with, and Peter didn't - at least, not such a recent grief.

Dinner itself -sitting and eating with Harry- was the first truely enjoyable experience Peter had had for days, if not weeks. Harry determinedly didn't talk about whatever his feelings were surrounding Spider-Man and his father, and Peter was grateful- he could almost pretend Harry's talk of revenge hadn't happened. They discussed whatever happy memories they could find- not too many of them involved high school, unsurprisingly.

Proceedings then came to an adrupt halt.

"But I have to find Spider-Man," Harry said, as their conversation about the futures both thought they were going to have veered off course. "I have to do that, and I have to run Oscorp- that's all I'm focused on at the moment."

Peter realised with some alarm that Harry's speech sounded slightly slurred, and he'd certainly been drinking alcohol...Peter hadn't kept track of how much. Maybe he should have.

"Why do you _have_ to?" he asked.

Harry shrugged listlessly, and pushed his plate away. "I'm not hungry anymore," he muttered. "D'ya want to go outside?"

Peter hadn't finished, but he nodded anyway. He followed Harry outside onto the balcony. Night had fallen- he always thought New York looked best at night. Harry leaned against the railings in a depressed sort of way.

"I _wish_ he was here right now," he said. When Peter didn't say anything, he gave him a rather sharp look and said, "Don't _you_?"

"I wish he was here for your sake," Peter said carefully.

Harry scowled. "He loved you. You owe him more than that. Wait." He held up a hand as Peter began to speak. "I'm going to go and get another drink." He went back into the house before Peter could stop him, and returned with a large glass of alcohol.

"You know, you've drunk an awful lot-"

Harry ignored this. "Like I was saying...oh, it doesn't matter. He's dead, we're not, we didn't choose this-do you want a drink, by the way?"

"No thanks."

"D'ya want to sit down, then...here's the seats..." He dragged two metal garden chairs over to where Peter was, and sat down in one himself. Peter took the other one.

"It doesn't matter," Harry said, as if there'd never been a break in the conversation. He took a long drink of alcohol...the most Peter had ever seen anyone drink in one go...and then suddenly said, very glumly, "Have you ever felt like you had nothing in the world left to lose?"

 _Yes, and I was wrong, Harry. And trying to destroy yourself just won't work. Stop doing it._ He didn't get to say that, though. Harry looked straight at him. "Except...there's you. And MJ. I haven't lost you yet."

 _Yet,_ Peter thought. _Oh God, it's just not fair. You lost me, Harry, before you even thought you might._

It was then that Harry began to cry. Peter hadn't expected it. It wasn't just a few tears, either- it was real, hysterical, gutwrenching crying. Peter had absolutely no idea what to do- he'd never cried like this, and he'd seen people cry like this less often then he thought most people had. Eventually, and rather awkwardly, he put his arm around Harry and let him rest his head on his shoulder. Harry kept crying without even looking at him, and Peter realised he wasn't just crying for his father, he was crying for _everything_...the mother who he didn't really remember; all the times his father ignored him or turned down innocent requests he made; all the times he'd been pushed around or mocked at school; the fact- _oh God_ \- that he would never know the identity of the person who killed his father. All those and probably more.

Eventually Harry stopped, lifted his arm and drew it across his face. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Harry, it's okay."

"My father would think that was showing weakness," Harry said gloomily. Peter didn't answer that, he had known Norman Osborn better than his own son had- although he didn't want to think about it- and it was true, he _would_ have said that. Despite knowing it wouldn't help....how could it?...he patted Harry's shoulder. Harry managed to smile and then stood up.

"I won't do that again," he said. "He's dead, and he's not coming back."

Of course, that was one of the worst things Peter could think of.... _the Green Goblin coming back..._

"Thank you, Peter," Harry said quietly. Then he glanced at the expensive watch on his wrist. "There's only five hours til midnight...are you going to stay here til then?"

"It's New Year's Day you're meant to do that," Peter said, glad for a change of subject. "I would like to, Harry, but I need to be home before midnight...I've always got schoolwork, y'know?"

"Okay," Harry said. He looked so horrendously disappointed that Peter looked away from him and stared at the cityscape instead. Harry finished the last of his drink. "Before you go," he said, "I'll give you your Christmas present." He walked back into the house, Peter following him, and took an oddly-shaped package from a drawer. "Here."

"Thanks," Peter said. "Here's yours." He took it from his pocket. "It's small, but..."

"Open yours first."

Peter began to unwrap it. Harry had clearly wrapped it himself...Peter could work that out because he hadn't done it especially well. It felt like it was clothing of some sort...something fluffy and green dropped into his hands.

"It's a sweater. You always look like you're a bit cold," Harry said, sounding brighter now. "It's one of the latest fashions."

Grateful though he was, Peter couldn't help but wish Harry hadn't picked that exact shade of green. "Thanks. I'll wear it right now..." He pulled it on over his shirt. It wasn't as itchy as he'd thought it might be. "Now, you open your present."

Harry opened it. "It's...a video game."

"Do you like it?" Peter asked. "Remember when we used to play games in the library? At school?"

"Yeah...well, thanks, Pete," Harry said. "I'm just not sure I'll have time for games, what with...everything."

"Give it a try." Peter said. There was a not-quite-awkward silence, then Harry said. "I guess you're going home now."

"I'm sorry."

"No...I know how it is." Peter's heart jumped into his mouth, but then Harry said, "You have schoolwork."

They went to the door. As they did they passed the mirror, and Peter couldn't help but feel slightly sick- there was definately something going on with that mirror. He couldn't exactly tell that to Harry, though.

When they opened the door, it was raining slightly. The snow had pretty much all been washed away.

"I could give you money for a taxi," Harry offered, as if he knew without having to think about it that Peter was pretty much penniless.

"No. It's okay. Walking is good for me," Peter assured him. "I'll see you...around, right?"

"Right."

They looked at each other, then Peter turned to go.

"Peter," Harry said.

He turned around again. "Yeah?"

"What I did back there..."

"Look, I'd have been surprised if you _hadn't_ cried by now, alright?"

"I drank too much."

That was hard to disagree with. "You're going through a bad time." _Oh God, that was stupid. And obvious._

"I know. Just...I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for...whatever it was I said about you and my dad."

"I knew you didn't mean it."

The rain intensified all of a sudden, as if telling them to hurry up. "You sure you don't want a taxi?" Harry asked, and when Peter shook his head he just said, "Thanks, Peter. I meant what I said last month...you _are_ family to me." And then he closed the door.

Peter paused in the rain for a second- _I'm sorry too, I'm so very sorry_ \- and then he started to walk. He walked faster and faster, trying to beat the rain somehow...and then he dodged down an alleyway and got changed, putting his new green sweater underneath a dustbin lid in order to keep it dry.


	5. AFTERMATH part 3

Christmas Day, 2002:

Peter had spent a long time deliberating what to get Mary Jane for Christmas. He'd thought about make-up, but she had a lot already, and a lot of it was probably more expensive than what he could give her. He'd thought about clothes, but she'd get plenty of those from her friends and relatives. Nothing he looked at seemed quite good enough to give to her.

The day before he'd gone to see Harry, he'd been in a bookshop looking for some books that would help him with science. All of it was pretty advanced stuff, and he'd been the only one in that part of the bookshop. He was scanning the shelves when his vision went totally off course and fell upon some children's books, off to the side. Exactly why they'd decided to put a display of children's picture books next to the giant volumes of advanced physics was beyond him, but he looked at them even so. One of them was a picture book of _Cinderella._ He picked that one up...it was the play MJ had starred in all that time ago, he still remembered the whole story...and noticed that in all the pictures of the title character, she'd been drawn with red hair. Well, that settled it- he bought it for her. It was rather expensive...actually, very expensive...and so he'd had to leave the science books behind. As it turned out, it didn't matter, he solved the problem on his own. But he hoped and prayed she'd like the book.

On his way to visit Aunt May, he went to MJ's house and knocked nervously at the door. It wasn't her who answered, though- it was her father.

"Yeah?" he grunted. And then- "You're the Parker kid, aren't you?"

Peter nodded.

"Well, if not for you," the man said, smelling of beer like usual, "she'd be living with Thompson or Osborn, wouldn't she? She'd be out of our hands, and rich, and better off than with... _you_ ," He sneered. "But no, it's you she likes. Give me that, I'll give it to her."

Peter knew he wouldn't. "Er, you know what? I'll come back later-"

"Who is it?" It was MJ's voice, and she suddenly replaced her father, who stalked back into the house. "Peter!" she said. She looked almost angry, and his heart sank.

"Um." Peter said brainlessly. He realised far too late that he should have had a speech in mind before arriving on her doorstep. "Um. I brought you a present." He thrust the package he was carrying right into her arms: she stared at him incredulously.

"Thanks," she said flatly. "I got you something, too." She reached over, picked up a box sitting on the hallway table, and handed it to him. "It's a camera," she said, rather redunantly. The box, after all, wasn't wrapped, and there was a big picture of a camera on it.

"Yeah." Peter said. "Thanks." _Say something to break the tension, you moron._ "Um. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," she answered, rather cooly. "Are you going to your aunt's house?"

"Yeah."

"Say hi to her from me."

"Okay." _Say something! Now!_

"Girl!" a voice from inside called. "Get back in here. Come have Christmas with _us_ , why don't you?"

"I'll see you around." MJ muttered. Present in hand, she closed the door. Peter was left watching her blurry shape move away behind the glass.

He was walked down his old front yard when it suddenly occured to him- she'd had his present, if unwrapped, ready and waiting on the table.

She must have been expecting him.

*

Peter walked the few steps to his old house. He still had a key to it- it stayed in his pocket permanently. He unlocked the door, and came in, calling "I'm here, Aunt May."

She came down the stairs, holding a present and beaming. "It's good to see you, Peter," she said, kissing his face. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too," he said. He sat down on the sofa, and looked around. This would always be his favourite place. He'd grown up here...grown up among the photographs and the wallpaper and the sofa and the tables. It was his home in a way that no other place had been so far.

"I went to see MJ," he said. "I gave her her Christmas present..."

"Did you, dear? What did she have to say?"

"Well, we couldn't talk for long, her father called her-"

May put on the expression she always wore at the mention of Mr Watson. "Did you invite her over here?"

"I tried," he said, feeling bad about resorting to a white lie. "Oh," he added. "She gave me a camera. Look." He took it out of his rucksack. "It's brand new. Isn't it great?" He handed it to her, and she examined it with interest. "It's lovely," she said. She put it on the table, and changed the subject back to the more important things. "So, you and Mary Jane..."

Peter had no idea what to say. "We're...we're not sure quite where we are."

"You love her," she said in her matter-of-fact way. "That's all you need to be sure about."

"I know, I know...it's just..." He didn't really want to talk about it. He couldn't work it out inside his own head, so how could it be put into words?

"Peter," May said. "I remember, when I was in the hospital, and you dashed into my room and said you'd phoned MJ's house and her parents told you they didn't know where she was. You looked so panicked...and of course we found out later you had more than a right to be, but I'll never forget your face. You looked as though you'd die just to be certain she was safe."

Peter looked away. He remembered that all too well...and he was astonished that the lie about MJ's parents had come to him so fast. As it was, her parents hadn't even been there the night she was kidnapped, and he hoped and prayed May wouldn't speak to Mr and Mrs Watson and find that out. It would get him in huge amounts of trouble, and not just for lying.

"I went to the bridge," he said, using the story he'd used as his alibi so many times before. "I saw the news, I knew that was where she was...I couldn't do anything, I was so, so scared..." Well, the 'scared' part was true. May nodded sympathetically.

"At least it's behind you now," May said. "And Harry...the poor boy."

Peter nodded.

"Have they got back together, do you know?"

"No...they're just friends. I think. Harry's...er...he's still really upset about what happened, I saw him yesterday, he's just...throwing himself into his work, his father's company..."

May pursed her lips. "I don't like to speak ill of the dead..."

Peter knew what was coming.

"...but Norman Osborn, he just gave money to that boy, and so little genuine love." She gave a heavy sigh. "I don't know what will become of Harry, but I think you should keep an eye on him."

"Yeah, I will."

"Anyway," she said. "Let's open our presents, then. Here you go, kiddo." She went to the Christmas tree...she must have decorated it completely on her own, Uncle Ben used to help her...and took a gift from underneath it. She gave it to him, and Peter took hers from his bag.

"Let's open them on the count of three," he said. "One...two...three." He tore the wrapping off his, and he grinned like a madman...it was a pair of physics books, similar to the ones he hadn't been able to afford. "Thank you, Aunt May. How's you know I wanted these?"

"Educated guesswork, Peter," May unwrapped the last of her present- it was a glittery ornament of two horses, he'd seen it in a shop and it reminded him of the house, although they'd never had an ornament like that- and she smiled at him.

"Thank you very much, Peter," she said. "Now, if you go into the dining room-" She led him in there, and Christmas dinner was spread on the table. Dinner for two, Peter thought with an internal sigh.

"It looks lovely," he said.

"Thank you, dear," she answered. "Now, sit down and we'll say grace."

Peter remembered the last time she'd said that. So many terrible things had happened since then. He sat down, closed his eyes, and hoped that things would get better for them all.

*

Ursula Ditkovich's diary, Christmas Eve 2002:

Every Christmas my dad sticks around for the whole day. Good of him really. We don't do anything though, have family round or whatever. Dad has alcohol, and sometimes he gets me a present, a CD or something. I get him videos (we still can't afford a DVD player). Used to get him books before I realised he never read them.

Wish I had someone else around. I don't know who- a friend of some kind. I always figured I didn't have friends, just acquaintances, and no-one in the world to talk to. Hence why I keep a diary.

Not that it's the same for every diary-keeper. Most of them are probably well-adjusted people. Although it's not like I would know what well-adjusted even is. Probably nobody in the world is well-adjusted.

*

Christmas Day, 2002:

MJ really, really wished she'd gone to Peter's house. Gone with him and talked to him properly.

She glanced out of the window, into Peter's back yard. It'd been so long since that night...that night where they'd just _talked_. Since then they'd graduated from school, dated other people (well, _she_ had), had people they knew (or loved) die, and she had almost died herself... _twice_...

Sometimes she wondered just what it was they were caught up in. It was _strange_ , whatever it was...she'd kissed Spider-Man, that one night which now seemed like a lifetime ago, but now she loved Peter (oh god, things would turn out for the best, they had to) and not him, even though he'd saved her life and Peter had not...

"Girl," her father grunted, "what're you staring off into space for?"

She didn't say sorry, but she resumed eating. Her father took a long drink of beer. Her mother looked at him, and gave a barely audible sigh. Clearly, her father heard it....he slammed the glass down on the table, and snapped "It's Christmas, for God's sake!"

"The alcoholic's choice of holiday," MJ muttered.

Her father growled at her -that was the noise that used to scare the life out of her when she was eight, because it would have led to screaming, insults, and her mother sobbing quietly. "Go to your room, girl. Go to your room _now_!"

"No," she said flatly.

"Phil-" her mother injected. "Phil, it's _Christmas_..."

"I don't care," he said. "Go to your room!"

"Make me," she said, and she got up, about to grab her coat and go next door-but her father caught her.

"Oh no you don't. We're your family, and the Parker kid isn't-you stay right here."

"You're a bastard."

"Finish your dinner!"

" _You_ said go to my-"

"FINISH YOUR DINNER."

No-one spoke a word for the remainder of the meal.

*

As soon as dinner was over, she did go to her room, storming up the stairs and slamming the door behind her. Her mother followed her, and knocked on the door.

"I'm not spending another Christmas with him, Mum."

"I know, dear," she said. "I'm sorry. But don't you want to come downstairs and open some presents?"

"No, Mum, I don't."

Her mother waited by the door for a moment, then walked away, going slowly down the stairs.

MJ looked out of the window at Peter's house, then picked up the _Cinderella_ book and began to read it.

*

An hour passed, then another hour. She tried not to feel sorry for herself; she wasn't that sort of person. She heard doors being opened and closed, heard talking, but thankfully no yelling. Eventually she put the book away and went downstairs.

Her mother wasn't around. Her father was sitting on the sofa, beer glass still in hand.

"Your mother's gone for a walk," he said, and it occured to her that he had always, for as long as she could remember, referred to his wife as _your mother_. It seemed like such an innocent thing, and he probably didn't think about it, but why didn't he call either of them by their names?

"Okay," she said.

"Turn on the TV."

"Why, so you can not talk to me?"

"I said, _turn on the TV_."

She turned it on- it seemed simplier then arguing. It was the ending of some Christmas movie, an irritatingly upbeat one. MJ watched in glum silence, wanting her mother to return, she wanted to talk to her now...but as the credits rolled, her father suddenly turned to her and said "MJ."

She nearly fell off her seat. Hearing her nickname...the name her friends used for her...come out of her father's mouth seemed like the most incredible thing. "What?"

"I've been thinking..." he muttered, his speech as slurred as usual. "I've been thinking...maybe I've been a bit..." He muttered something that was both incomprehensible and laden with profanity, and MJ didn't especially want to ask what he was describing himself as. "Just so you know...I know you hate me..."

MJ said nothing, but she realised she'd regret it later, so she muttered. "Only sometimes."

"I didn't 'tend for my life to turn out like this..." her father groaned to himself. "It's just...s' not that I didn't like your mother...hell, s' not that I don't like you, just I never expected a daughter, didn't know what to do, never even knew what a kid was gonna be like...you get it, right?"

"Yes, I get it," she said quietly.

"And I can't get round it...what happened to you at the bridge...you could've died, I'd have never forgave myself...your mother, she'd have never forgiven me neither...I wanted to say sorry, I tried, so 'shamed I didn't want to look at ya..." His speech was coming out all jumbled now, she was used to that- it wasn't like he'd never drunk himself into a stupor before- but _this_ was something new.

"Apology accepted," she muttered.

"What?"

"Apology accepted."

"Oh," She wasn't really on his register anymore. "I gotta go and take a pee." He wandered off in the direction of the bathroom, and Mary Jane suddenly felt a crushing sadness.

"I'm going to Peter's house." she said.

"Alright."

She ran outside and to the house next door. She pressed the doorbell rather more urgently than she'd intended to-and Aunt May answered the door.

"Mary Jane! Peter said you were celebrating with your parents..."

'Celebrating' perhaps wasn't the word, but she nodded anyway. "I...was. I was wondering, Aunt May, if it's alright...can I come in and see Peter?"

"I'm sorry, dear, he's just left."

"He's just left?"

"Yes," May sighed. "Can't be in one place for too long anymore, it seems. I imagine it was schoolwork he had to attend to, he gets a lot of it these days."

MJ could think of nothing to say, and so said simply, "Oh."

"Would you like to come in anyway, dear? The turkey's all gone, but I think there may be some pudding left, I'll heat it up for you..."

MJ turned her head and saw her mother walking quickly down the road. "Thanks, Aunt May, but I can't. My mom wants me...wants us to spend christmas together. She's been trying so hard."

"I know, dear, I know." She tutted. "Very well, then. Give your mother my best regards, and if you still want that pudding later I'll save it for you."

MJ was touched by all this kindness. "Thank you- very much."

"Merry Christmas, dear," May said in response.

"Merry Christmas to you, too."

The door was closed, and MJ went to meet her mother, slightly less dejected.

She wasn't going to be here next Christmas, though. She just wasn't.


	6. AFTERMATH part 4

Ursula Ditkovich's diary, 1st January 2003:

For my New Year's Resolution, I will sort out my life.

*

21st January 2003:

Peter awoke on the 21st of Jauary feeling sick. He got up and went to the mirror and he looked like the walking dead. He groaned and went off to the shower. He had a cold. And quite a bad one, by the feel of it.

He sneezed.

After he'd showered and dressed he wondered what to do. He could do what he did every day- save people as Spider-Man, or he could stay inside and do schoolwork. Or he could go to his aunt's house, he hadn't seen her since Christmas -nothing but a few phone calls- and he felt so guilty about it. They'd been sitting around talking when Peter heard the noise of sirens outside. He tried to ignore them, he really tried, but it didn't work. He'd left her...left her all alone on Christmas Day with nothing but some feeble excuses...and he couldn't even come back on the 26th, because the police cars had been heading towards a gunfight between rival gangs, and most of them had been arrested, but the next day he'd hardly got a few yards from the apartment (in costume of course) when one of them who'd avoided capture had taken a shot at him...

The shot had grazed his arm. It hurt quite a lot. That was both his arms cut up now, he thought dryly. He'd be lucky if he kept all his limbs into old age.

Anyway, he'd finally knocked out the guy and dragged him to the police station, and there they had tried to take him in for questioning. They'd demanded he take the mask off, he'd been lucky to get out without being shot, all things considered...

And now it was a few weeks later and he had a cold. His life seemed like a blur sometimes...

He suddenly really, really wanted to go and see MJ. _Really_ wanted. How could he have not seen her since Christmas? Was she angry that he seemed not to care?

_I care. I care. I care very much. I hope you're okay...wherever you are._

Maybe one day she would leave town and not tell him.

No, that was ridiculous.

He sneezed, and got a jolt of pain in his arm to go with it. He went downstairs to get his post...one letter. It was about the apartment. The apartment had belonged, pretty much, to Norman, but now, thanks to Harry and some paperwork, it belonged to him...and he couldn't afford it.

He knew in the back of his mind that soon he'd have to move somewhere else, and probably somewhere distinctly cheaper- but he wanted to hold onto the apartment for as long as possible. It was a decent place to live, even if it wasn't home. He supposed he could ask Harry to lend him money...

Or he could earn it himself. Why shouldn't he? After all, his friends -and his aunt- were going to think he was utterly useless and lazy if he turned up at their houses unemployed and asking for money. He made a note at the back of his mind: _get job, then get new apartment._

He had breakfast...he'd bought some milk and cereal, now- and then he went to get changed. He plucked his costume from the wardrobe, his masks from the box which now lurked at the very back of the cupboard, and got changed.

He was Spider-Man for the rest of the day, and felt guilty when he got back because hey, still no job or money.

*

Daily Bugle website message boards, 28th January 2003:

i've got a story for you. on 26th dec, i woz walkin down the road mindin my own business when some guy runs around the corner, really fast, and hes carrying a gun. i freaked out and ran, and then i heard gunshots, but thwn i relised he woz shooting at the sky, and when i looked up spiderman woz up there. i freaked again, coz i heard about him killing some guy, but he suddenly jumped right outta the sky, and sort of snatched up the guy with the gun, and carried him away. the gun fell outta of his hands towards the ground, but then suddenly a web came down and snatched it back up again. didn't see where they went but i heard the guy screaming.

what do you guys think? pretty cool eh...

*

21st January 2003:

That evening, Mary Jane was watching television. That was pretty much the only thing to do in the house if you didn't feel like talking to its other occupants, and tonight she didn't. Her mother had gone out visiting friends and her father wasn't speaking to her. He was prevented from going to the pub because she'd been kidnapped and now couldn't be left alone. He had yelled at her mother about it, loudly and crudely. Nice to get more proof of where his priorities lay.

_Although, he could just leave if he really wanted to, but he's still here..._

She turned her attention back to the television. News was on. It was the usual stuff. Debates raging about this, that and the other, celebrities doing this, that and the other, Spider-Man had saved three people from a burning building and then pulled an injured man from the wreckage of a car, all in one day-

There wasn't much footage of them, though. There never was. He was usually too fast for anyone to get him on video.

She thought, slightly inexplicably, of Peter. What was he doing, right now?

*

22nd January 2003:

Peter realised at exactly 2:07 in the morning that he'd gone to sleep still with most of his costume on. The mask and the gloves were lying on the floor readily available for anyone with a pair of binoculars and a tendancy to disrespect other people's privacy to see.

He groaned, got up, shut the curtains, changed into his pyjamas and put the suit away. He found the mask-box only when he tripped over it, and he couldn't find the key that unlocked it, so he threw the mask in the wardrobe and got back into bed. He couldn't get back to sleep, though. He cursed himself: he had to get up and go to school tomorrow. He'd be falling asleep in Dr Connor's class...

He finally slept at about 4:46 am, after it occured to him that it was almost -now even more almost- his twentieth birthday.

*

22nd January 2003:

MJ got up early that day and went to the card shop. Her mother hadn't come back yet, but she wasn't worried, sometimes she stayed away until late afternoon. After browsing for a while, she eventually picked out an elaborately decorated one with hearts all over it. She didn't regret it, although she was honestly expecting to. When it came to Peter, she wasn't surprised when her own feelings started messing her around.

A present, next. She wasn't very good at picking out presents for him, she was sure. Nothing she thought of giving him seemed to say anything.

Then again, she didn't know what she wanted to say to him. The man had made her _cry_.

Eventually, she bought him a notebook and pen. She wrote on the first page of the notebook herself:

_HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Love, Me._

The 'love' had been a mistake, she realised as soon as she wrote it. But crossing it out would send entirely the wrong message, and scribbling it out would make a mess.

She wrapped it carefully up in silver wrapping paper. She would go to his apartment and give it to him tomorrow. Assuming he was there...but if he wasn't, there were really only two other places he'd be likely to be; his aunt's house or Harry's house.

Her mother eventually showed up after lunch. She looked rather preoccupied, and spoke to her husband before she said hello to her daughter.

"I need to talk to you. It's urgent."

"What is it?" he asked, on his guard right away.

Mary Jane got up and hurried to her bedroom. Her mother was a soft-spoken woman, but she could hear her words "I want a divorce." ringing out all over the house. And then her father started yelling, so she ran downstairs again. But he had gone, slamming the door behind him so loud it could have been heard on the other side of the world. Her mother stood in the doorway to the living room, staring after him.

"I thought," she said with a sigh, "that he would at least answer. Yes or no would have done."

"Oh, Mom-"

"Perhaps I should have waited."

"No, you _shouldn't_ ," she said, amazed at the tone of her voice. "I don't...mind...if he goes, okay?"

"You don't sound certain, dear."

She attempted to work it out in her brain. On the one hand he was her father, but on the other hand he was a drunken, loutish, ignorant oaf...and dammit, this didn't seem in the least bit fair.

"If I wake up the next day and he's gone, I don't think I'll mind," she managed to say, and assumed she meant it.

Her mother just smiled weakily, and murmured "I'll wait till he gets back."

She woke up the next day and he was gone.

*

23rd January 2003:

Peter kicked off the bedcovers and walked to the window. The sun had risen. January the twenty-third.

So...it was his birthday. Time to enjoy himself. He picked up his costume and placed it firmly in the wardobe, even though he felt not quite right doing so.

The phone rang.

"Hello?" he said groggily.

"Peter? S'me, Harry," came Harry's voice on the other end. "Happy birthday, good buddy."

"Thanks, Harry. Are you coming over?" he asked. "My aunt's bringing cake, and Mary Jane will be here...I think." He could almost hear Harry wince on the other end, because he was doing the same thing himself...that was all of the people who'd gotten together to celebrate Thanksgiving, with one notable exception.

"I'm going to try, Pete," Harry said. "I have an important meeting today, but I will try and get there."

"Okay," Peter said. "I'll see you then."

"I promise," Harry added, before hanging up.

Peter glanced around his _-the-_ apartment. Since Harry had left, it had become rather messy. He ought to clean it up. He'd do that today. The city would survive.

Of _course_ the city would survive...but would individual people? A strange and inexplicable image popped into his head, and after that they kept coming: grieving parents, friends and lovers being told their children or soulmates had died because Spider-Man was _out to lunch_ , or _celebrating his birthday_ , or _tidying his room_...

He tried to tidy up, he really did. It looked fairly presentable by the time he couldn't take it anymore and went to the wardobe to retrieve his costume.

*

The Daily Bugle, 23rd January 2003:

SPIDER-MAN'S PLOT REVEALED?  
Barely a year ago, Oscorp Industries was one of the most celebrated companies in the Western world: its science division alone was worth millions. These days it is worth considerably less, most of its board members are dead, and its founder was found murdered in mysterious circumstances, with Spider-Man as the main suspect. And of course, Spider-Man's partner in crime, the Goblin, used a glider and weaponry stolen from the company.

Could it be that between them they planned to bring the company down? In the insane hope of ending the war, maybe, or promoting some liberal anti-war message? Or is it something more sinister...

*

23rd January 2003:

Harry heard the whispers, he always did. Members of the company there from the start, particularly those not favoured by his father...on top of the whispering, they always gave him filthy looks when he walked past. He never met any of their gazes. No-one in the company had offered him sympathy, not a soul- and he told himself he didn't want it, not from them, but what had he ever _done_ to deserve nothing but nasty looks? Only be his father's son.

It reminded him of high school, despite the fact that most of the Oscorp employees were twice his age at least. It depressed him: maybe there was hardly any distinction between children and adults after all.

At least the meeting had gone well. He had been speaking to a man called Otto Octavius -even Harry had heard of him, he had heard Peter talking about him once- he was a brilliant scientist, apparently. He was working on a big project, something involving fusion, Harry wasn't sure of the specifics. He seemed pleasant enough, but he hadn't said _sorry for your loss_ , or anything of the sort, either.

Why did he have to have people apologize to him about it, for heaven's sake? It wasn't like it was their fault- it wasn't _anyone's_ fault, apart from Spider-Man's. Why should people be expected to make him feel better, he wasn't the center of their universe, or indeed anyone's universe, he was being stupid-

He just wanted people to acknowledge- what? That their ruthless employer had meant something to someone? That he was hurting, hurting a _lot_ -

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, and it was a woman. He hadn't seen her before- she was very pretty, with smiling eyes and brown hair. He was rather taken aback for a second.

"Hello?" he said.

"Mr Osborn?" she asked. Harry almost sighed, like he'd once said, he looked around for his father whenever he heard that name.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I just wanted to say, I'm sorry for your loss," she said. When Harry didn't say anything -he was too, well, surprised- she went on "I didn't know your father, but I read that he had died."

Harry didn't correct her with _been murdered_ , and he had no idea why. "Thank you," he said quietly. "That...means quite a lot."

"I saw your picture in the paper," she said, waving his gratitude away. "That's how I was fairly sure of who you were. Oh," she went on. "My name is Rosie-I'm Otto's wife,"

"You are?" he said. "I just came from a meeting with him..."

"I know. What do you think? He's been working with fusion...all his life," she said. "It would be his dream come true, to be provided with the resources to _create_ something...I assume you haven't made a decision yet, though..."

"Well, I'd have to speak with a board of directors, and everything, but...I would like for it to happen, Mrs Octavius," he said. She beamed in response.

"In fact- you know what? I'd be optimistic," he said brightly. "I hope you'll excuse me...I ought to be somewhere else right now. I'm sorry."

"No, Mr Osborn, thanks for your help," she said, still grinning at what was clearly fantastic news to her. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," he said, and he smiled once more...this was odd, surely he hadn't smiled purely for the sake of smiling for such a long time...and hurried away; he had a birthday to go to.

*

Note pinned to door, 23rd January 2003:

mom, gone to peter's house for his birthday party. i promise to be back before dark.

if dad comes back, please please please call me!!!!!

-mj

*

23rd January 2003:

Aunt May arrived at the apartment first. She was carrying a birthday cake. "Happy birthday, dear," she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. "I made this myself. More than enough for four people."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear," she said. "Where are they? MJ and Harry? Harry is coming, I take it?"

"Oh yes, he's coming," Peter said. "He might be a little late...he's got a meeting...but MJ should be here any time now..."

As if on cue, and rather amusingly, the doorbell rang at just that moment. Peter bounded to the door and flung it open -it was her.

She looked gorgeous, and she was holding a present and a card. She also was holding a balloon in her other hand, which she handed to him.

"It's cool, isn't it?" she said. "I bought it on the way here- I thought you'd like it." The tension of their last conversation, to Peter's relief, seemed to be gone. There was still a strange look in her eyes, however, but he chose to ignore it.

"I love it," he said sincerely. "Here..." He tied it to the banister, where it bobbed about in the air. "Thank you, MJ-" He was about to kiss her on the cheek- _about to kiss her_ \- but suddenly he _realised_ , and there was an incredibly awkward moment.

She'd looked like she wanted to kiss him, whether it was a simple kiss between friends or not. It didn't matter, they just needed each other. Of course, he'd known that for years and years and years.

His aunt's voice interupted his thoughts. "I," she annouced, "will make you a birthday feast. Don't even think about it," she said, when Peter opened his mouth, "it's your birthday." She vanished into the kitchen.

Peter and MJ sat down on the sofa.

"So..." Peter said, "so, how's things?"

MJ looked at him, looked at the floor, looked at him again and said "My dad left today."

About a hundred thoughts shot through Peter's head like bullets. " _Oh_ ," he said in shock. "Oh..."

"Don't apologize," she said. "Admittedly he's been gone less than twenty-four hours, but I'm not missing him much."

"Do you know where he's gone?"

"My mother said that at midnight, he woke her up with his bags all packed and told her he was moving in with friends," she said, shaking her head. "He didn't bother waking me up."

"Do you know why he did it?"

"They're blaming each other for me being kidnapped," she answered simply. "My dad blames my mum for going out to see friends and my mum blames my dad for being out drinking."

"And who do you blame?"

She blinked. "My dad, I suppose. He..." She just shook her head - her relationship with her father could be reduced to just that one gesture, really. "Let's not talk about it."

"Gotcha," Peter said. "What do you want to talk about? I'm an expert in anything..."

She grinned. "You're good at making me feel better, you know that?" She then realised what she had said, and changed the subject. "Hmmm...how's life? Jobs, school, the rest?"

"School is good. Jobs...I haven't got one," He grinned sheepishly. "I'm gonna look, don't worry. I could use the money. I'm getting a smaller apartment, for one thing- this one's a bit out of my league now..."

"I didn't know things were that desperate," MJ said in a concerned tone. "Surely there's something you can do? I mean- I thought you and Harry were going to keep living together."

"I guess not," Peter said with a shrug. "Although, well, I haven't asked. Not yet."

"Come to think of it," MJ said, "how come Harry isn't here?"

"He's at a meeting. He said he's coming."

MJ was silent for a few seconds. "Were you..." she said thoughtfully, "...were you really jealous when we started dating? Me and Harry?"

"Erm..." Peter thought about it. It was hard to tell. And rather hard to think about. "I just wanted you to be happy," he said very quietly. "That's all I ever wanted, for you to be happy."

MJ looked at him, just looked at him for a few moments, as if dryly saying _yeah, you did a really great job of that_...and then she sighed. "I was happy. I think. Just maybe...not happy enough." And that was how she looked: not happy enough. No sooner had he noticed this, though, then she smiled at him.

"He wasn't - a _bad_ boyfriend," she said. "At least he cared about me. More then I can say for a lot of guys I went out with," She gave a cross between a snort and a bitter laugh. "Let's face it, though, we weren't meant for each other. But at least we're still friends, right? That doesn't happen often..." She took a deep breath. "I'm glad we're still friends," she said. "Alright?"

"You mean you and Harry, or..."

"I mean us."

Peter felt decidedly relieved. "Thanks." he said, awkward again.

"You're welcome," MJ said, equally so.

There was silence for a bit.

"Did he ever apologize to you," Peter finally said, "about what he said at Thanksgiving?" He wasn't sure why he was bringing this up now, seeing as it was so long ago...but it seemed worth asking.

"Oh. He tried to. I sort of...ignored everything he said," MJ admitted. "My father was furious. Said that 'the Osborn kid' was 'the best move I ever made' and I had to 'damn well see him - and his money - through to the end.'" She shook her head. "I seem to split up with any guy my father approves of, whether he approves of them for good reasons or not. I suppose it wasn't Harry's fault...not really...it just wouldn't have worked..."

This was awkward, it was so, so awkward.

"I..." Peter began, but he trailed off.

"You know..." MJ said, as if desperatly searching for something to say. "I kissed Spider-Man once."

This of course wasn't news to him- oh no, it was on his mind _every single day_ -but he had to pretend. "Seriously?" he said, widening his eyes. "Why?"

"I told you once that I nearly got mugged and Spider-Man saved me," she said. "But what I didn't tell you was that afterwards...I kissed him. In the rain."

 _Upside down_ , Peter added in his head. But out loud he said "Wow. But you didn't...you didn't find out who he really was."

She shook her head. "That must have been why I was taken to the bridge that night." she said with a sigh. "Because I kissed him. And I thought I loved him. And I suppose he must have loved me...although now I don't know."

"And now you..." Why were all conversations so _difficult_ now?

"And now, I guess..." But she trailed off hopelessly. This was far too hard on both of them, and Peter was about to very quickly change the subject when the doorbell rang and saved him the trouble. He opened the door. "Harry! Hey."

"Hey, Pete. Hi, MJ..." Harry looked at the ground and not at her as he said her name. "Happy birthday, Peter." He handed over his present. "I like the balloon."

"MJ brought it," Peter said. "Come on in...pull up a sofa."

Harry sat down. "I kinda miss this place," he said quietly. He looked at MJ properly. "Thanks for coming round on the 26th."

Peter hadn't known about this. Of course not, he'd been getting shot at the time.

"Well, I'd got you a present and everything." MJ said. "And I thought...I should have stayed longer, really. You shouldn't work straight after Christmas, you should be resting...eating turkey...whatever..."

And of course things were still awkward, between all of them. It really wasn't fair.

Harry looked at Peter.

"Friends now," he said. "And remaining that way- I guess."

MJ nodded. "Friends," she said, without the I guess.

May called them all in for dinner then.

*

Harry left the apartment first, then May did. Peter and MJ were left alone. And there was so much unspoken that neither of them could say. Eventually, MJ put her arm around him, and then walked to the door.

"Happy birthday," she said quietly. They exchanged a long, long look.

"It's better like this," she said. "With all of us just friends...when I went to see Harry on the 26th he said much the same thing. I should have had a proper conversation with him sooner, I really should...maybe this should be a new beginning, Peter. For us all."

"MJ..." But he had no idea what to say. Words came into his head only to vanish moments later. "MJ...I will always be your friend, okay? No matter what happens. I want you to remember that. _Always_."

She nodded. Peter became aware of the clock on the wall in the kitchen, ticking away. Minutes. Hours. _Years_. They'd known each other for so long...

"I know," she said. "Same here." And then she walked away.

Peter closed the door after her. He seemed to spend a lifetime doing so. He returned to the sofa and looked at the present she had given him...the notebook.

 _Love, Me._  
 


	7. AFTERMATH part 5

29th January 2003:

Harry didn't like waking up in the mornings, but then again he didn't much like sleep, either. He had nightmares. Come to think of it, he'd always done. They'd just gotten worse- much worse.

He went downstairs and put some toast in the toaster. He ate toast every morning- and there was a good reason why, although he wouldn't admit it to anyone. The only memory of his mother that he'd ever really had in his mind was of her standing in the kitchen- they'd had a smaller house at some point, he was certain- and making toast for him. Whenever he smelled toast he thought of her, this woman who he'd never even known.

He went into the living room to eat it. He'd get crumbs everywhere, but the servants would take care of that- that was what he paid them for, after all.

His mother's painting hung on the wall behind him, facing the mirror. He looked at it every day, whether he knew he was doing so or not. "Morning, Mom," he said under his breath.

His father hadn't liked the painting, and Harry knew he kept it around only for it's practical value. There was a safe behind it, where his father kept any valuable things he might be entrusted with. Occasionally, that meant chemicals- and whenever it was chemicals in there, Harry was forbidden from going near the painting, or into the room at all. When he was only seven years old, he'd cried out loud about it for hours- and eventually, a few days later, he woke up and discovered next to his bed a tiny copy of the painting, small enough for him to carry around with him. He thanked his father for that, many times, but the only answer he got was. "I want you to be careful with that. Keep it in your bedroom. I know how careless you are, you'll lose it within days."

He'd _never_ seen his father look at the painting. Maybe there were photographs somewhere, but he'd never seen them.

*

30th January 2003:

Harry had invited Peter to a restaurant for dinner. Peter had decided that just for once, he would be _early_ for an appointment, and he managed it. It took work, of course- running all the way to college, for one thing- but he'd made it.

Harry turned up five minutes later. He was walking, instead of being driven. This struck Peter as odd, and Harry probably noticed, because he said. "I told my driver I'd walk today. I mean, it's a nice day and everything,"

"Of course," Peter said. "I'm hungry. Let's eat."

The restaurant was a nice one- it wasn't as high-class as some of the places Harry had taken him to, but the food was good, and Harry seemed to be cheering up...maybe he _was_ starting to get over his father's death, maybe he was going to survive this- but then the conversation, after only a few minutes, went to Spider-Man, as Peter perhaps secretly knew it would.

"I've been reading all the papers," Harry said. "Seems like he's enjoying himself- zipping about the place like...like..." But he coudn't think of anything. "It doesn't make any sense," he muttered. "He keeps saving people's lives..."

Peter made a noise which was both neutral and hopeful. Harry didn't pay much attention to that.

"Don't you know _anything_ about him?" Harry asked. "Any tiny little detail? Does he have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or a best friend? Someone else who knows where he is?"

Peter felt like he was jumping down a chasm. "I think what he does makes relationships like that....very difficult," he managed to say. "I think I'm his only friend- and I'm not much of one, to him. Just his photographer."

Harry just nodded slowly.

"He's not a bad guy, Harry," Peter went on. "I know he isn't..."

"I _saw_ him," Harry said, not even paying attention to him anymore. "I saw him standing there...I _should_ have seen what he looked like, then I might not be in this mess...he was white, I'm sure of that, and almost definately male, but..." He shrugged helplessly. "That's it."

Peter said nothing.

"I should have _seen_ him..." Harry said again. "He's a murderer...what if he kills more people? It'll be partly my fault, because I wouldn't have done anything!" Peter's heart went out to him, at this.

"I don't think he _will_ kill anyone else," he said, but very quietly. Then he decided to say something else- and he mentally steeled himself for Harry's reaction. "What if...he didn't kill your dad? What if...well, supposing it was something else? Supposing someone else killed him, or he...or he killed...himself, and Spider-Man was just returning his body, not knowing anything about it..."

Harry stared at him like he was just seeing him for the first time. Peter didn't dare look at his eyes- he knew there'd be horror and anger in them. When Harry spoke, it was in a low voice. "My father would _not_ kill himself."

"I know, Harry," Peter said gently. "But you...ought to consider all the possibilities..."

"He wouldn't have," Harry repeated furiously. " _Damn_ it, Peter. You know he wouldn't."

Peter could only nod.

Harry sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Anyway...I was going to ask you, before we got sidetracked...d'ya want to move in with me?"

Peter hadn't expected that. He had always figured that Harry was so frustrated with him he wouldn't want to share a house. He figured Harry wouldn't do _anything_ for him until he gave him at least a little information on Spider-Man...

"Er.." Peter said.

"I know you're not staying in the apartment," Harry went on, "And I...well, I wouldn't mind some company."

 _True_...Peter himself would hate to be all alone in that big house, with nothing but masks and echoes around him. He wouldn't want to do it, even if Harry was there. _Especially_ if Harry was there. Conversations like these every day...he wouldn't be able to handle it.

And that was it, really.

"Er...I'm sorry, Harry, but...no thank you." He sought around for a plausible excuse. "I...well, I want to try and make it on my own, you know? I appreciate it, but...no thanks."

Harry clearly didn't buy it. "Okay..." he said slowly. "Okay...if that's what you want..." He leaned back in his chair, as if trying to put distance between them. Peter figured he knew the real reason. He had to.

Well, not the _real_ real reason, but...oh, it was getting too complicated for him.

*

An email, 30th January 2003:

<j_jameson@dailybugle.com> to <r_robertson@dailybugle.com>

I'VE BEEN THINKING. THAT REDHEAD CHICK THROWN OFF THE BRIDGE, IT'S HIGH TIME SHE STOPPED HIDING AWAY. GET HOLD OF HER. EMAIL THAT MAN WHO SENT IN THAT PHOTOGRAPH, IT'S PRETTY OBVIOUS HE'S HER FATHER. MAKE SURE SHE AGREES TO LET US USE HER DETAILS- NAME, AGE, ADDRESS, BRA SIZE IF POSSIBLE. GET HER TO GIVE AN INTERVIEW. WE NEED TO FIND OUT WHAT HER CONNECTION TO SPIDERMAN IS.

*

30th January 2003:

As soon as he got home, Peter collapsed on the bed. He had plans for the night: firstly; phone MJ, then sleep for about a hour, then go out and apprehend jewel thieves or muggers or whoever oughtn't to be on the streets, then come back and sleep for a few more hours, then finish his homework.

He wasn't sure if it would work. He'd try, though. He reached for the phone, dialled the number he had keep in his memory for years...and it rang and rang. No-one picked up. He heard her voice- " _Sing your song at the beep_!" and so after the beep started talking.

"Hey, MJ. It's me. Peter. Er, I hope you're okay. I was just...wondering how things were going. I hope you're okay..." _Damn, said it twice..._ "Phone me back, okay? Then we can talk properly. I'll try and come to see you sometime, okay? Bye.." He hung up. He remembered the last time he'd left a message on her machine. Maybe he should forget about the sleep for now, and go over to her house, see if she was okay...

_No, she's fine, you nutcase, she's just out somewhere enjoying her life, you have no reason to be worried-_

But before he knew it, he was Spider-Man again, heading for her house.

*

He reached their street in only a few minutes. He stopped in the branches of a tree, and looked out over the two houses- her house and his aunt's house. Two people vitally important to him, in one place...it worried him, a lot...

There she was! She was walking towards her house, walking quickly, her head down....but then she looked up and saw him. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Utter fear shot through Peter. He couldn't move and he didn't know what to do. She walked towards him, smiling, and he ought to run, he ought to-

"Hello," she said, and walked towards him. "Come down! I want to talk to you."

Well, there was no chance of escape now. He was careful to disguise his voice. "No thank you, Miss Watson- if you don't mind, I'll stay here."

"Well, suit yourself," she said. "I- I'm sorry that I don't know your name."

 _Oh MJ, you do._ "I got your name from the paper," he said. "It's a pretty name."

"Thank you. Thank you for many, many things." she said. "You saved my life three times. There will always be a place in my heart for you, remember that."

"Okay," he said, nearly choking on his false voice.

"Please come down," she said. "I can barely see you, up there."

"No, I can't," he answered. "I guess...you're going to move on with your life now, huh?"

"I am," she said quietly. "I'm in love with someone else. Or..." She sighed. "Or I _should_ be, you know?"

"Are you or aren't you?" he asked, and keeping his voice lighthearted was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

"I...am," she said. "Goodbye, then. I'll never forget you."

"Same here," he said. She looked hesitant, as if there were many more things she wanted to say...but then she walked away, looking back only once.

Peter stayed where he was and watched her enter her house. He felt like crying.

_At least you haven't really lost her..._

_Yes, but how long until you do?_

_*_

An email, 31st January 2003:

<phil_t_watson@hotmail.com> to <r_robertson@dailybugle.com>

Tell your boss to leave my daughter alone. Kid's been through a hell of a lot and the last thing she needs is a bunch of hacks bothering her for a story. You ever consider she might not want to live it all over again? It's done, she's put it behind her. Stick it up your ass.

*

30th January 2003:

MJ stood at her window, thinking. Something was bugging her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

_I'm sorry that I don't know your name-_

The words 'the victim' were still flickering in her mind...

_I got your name from the paper-_

Ah.

Her name had never _been_ in the papers.   
 


	8. AFTERMATH part 6

1st February 2003:

Two quite important things happened to Peter on the first of February: one he intended and one he most definately didn't. The first one took place in the early hours of the morning; which was for some reason the only few hours the man who could hire him a room had to spare.

As it was, it didn't take long.

"If you can pay," Mr Ditkovich said in his Russian accent. "then you get the room. I don't much care what you do- you can keep pets, have parties, transform regularly into a werewolf- I just want my money on time."

"Of course," Peter said, wondering if he'd been given a stroke of luck here. "I will. Er, how much?"

The price was more than he had expected, especially for such a small, cramped, dirty and frankly rather undesirable place...but he supposed it was worth it, for the privacy he'd be given. Who would expect Spider-Man to live here?

"There are no rules," Mr Ditkovich said after Peter had agreed with the price. "Respect the other people in the building, and they will respect you. In the apartment there is only me, my daughter, and any friends I might choose to lend a room to. We have a loud, drunken party and watch the football until midnight every Saturday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Are we understood?"

"...we are."

*

Peter arrived at the Bugle office probably slightly earlier than he needed to be. Not many people were around, and no-one he knew. So he waited outside Jameson's office. He was on the phone- Peter didn't know why, though. After all, he could just lean out of the window and yell, and whoever he wanted would be able to hear him.

"Well, when you _do_ find Mr Osborn," he was saying. "tell him I'm waiting. Tell him I'll have the entire _city_ on the lookout for the wallcrawler before the day is done, as soon as they're aware of the realdamage he's done." There was genuine conviction in his voice at that. Peter sighed to himself. He should have seen this one coming. Of course, he was fairly sure Jameson and Norman had been friends at one point...

"And tell him I'm sorry for his loss," Jameson added to whichever of Harry's employees he was talking to. "Tell him I'm sorry I didn't send flowers- wife took the credit card, he'll have to lay the blame on her instead, the thoughtless woman." He replaced the phone on the hook and spun around to face the door. "Parker! You're early. Unusual. Come in."

Peter came in and sat nervously down. "I didn't mean to be listening to your conversation..." he began.

"Nonsense, of course you did," Jameson said. "Not that it matters, it was nothing important- if it had, you'd have been fired soon as I saw you there. What do you want?"

Peter had in fact brought him some photographs, but it could wait a few seconds. "Mr Jameson...was that Harry Osborn you wanted to talk to? On the phone?"

"What's it to you?" Jameson asked.

"Harry's my best friend..."

"He is?" he asked increduously. "How did that happen?"

Peter ignored this. "And he's...he's kind of not himself at the moment, his father died only a month or two ago..."

"Oh," Jameson said. "Well, then- we'll send you to interview him. You'll be sensitive, won't press him, do a good job- oh, I forgot. You're a _photographer_ ," He rolled his eyes theatrically.

Peter had a feeling that when they did the interview, Harry wouldn't need any pressing whatsoever. "I brought some more photographs," he said, and took one out of his bag. It deliberately wasn't a very good one- dark and blurred.

Jameson took it and looked at it. "Gone off you, has he?" he said. "I'll give you fifty."

"It's not that bad," Peter said. "It's worth more than that..."

"What are you doing, trying to pull a Jedi mind trick?" Jameson roared with laughter. "Seventy. That's more than enough." He was about to hand Peter his payment, when suddenly he thought of something and dropped his voice to a slightly lower volume than usual. "You said before -you're Harry Osborn's _friend_ , Parker?"

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Then what the hell are you doing just _taking pictures_ of the freak who killed his father?" His voice was still quiet -quiet and actually rather angry, and Peter genuinely hated his life at that moment. "If you know how to find him, catch him, you idiot! Your best friend's _father_ and all you can do is send me _pictures_? What are you, some kind of coward?"

Peter had never wanted to scream and yell and throw things as much in his entire life. Well- actually that wasn't quite true. All the same, it took effort beyond even that of a superhero not to pick up a chair and fling it right at the office's recently repaired window. "I don't _talk_ to him, Mr Jameson. He just lets me photograph him- I have no idea why. If I _could_ catch him, I would- but what am I supposed to do? I don't even know who he is."

Jameson didn't look convinced- but at that point the phone rang, and he picked it up. "Oh, it's you, Robbie," he said crossly. "You're late. What do you _mean_? People _afraid to come into work_?" He snorted as if the absurdity of all this was completely beyond him. "Afraid of the Goblin coming back? He didn't even do much damage! No, Robbie, _you_ listen to _me_ -" He put his hand over the reciever for a moment and gestured towards the door. "You. Parker. Out." He went back to the phone. "No-one was even hurt, Robbie. Apart from me, I might add- and where am I? Standing here. In my office. Doing my _job_ -"

Peter decided on the way out that he greatly, greatly preferred the hyperactive, inconsiderate newspaper editor to the man who'd been staring at him with accusing eyes only a few seconds ago. And there really wasn't much he preferred J. Jonah Jameson over.

*

Daily Bugle website message boards, 31st January 2003:

oh, you guys won't believe who I saw today. with my own eyes, right in front of me, robbing a store, it was definately him- he's back folks-

*

1st February 2003:

The second important thing that happened to Peter on the first of February happened when he was back at his apartment, looking at the various things in it and wondering if there was anything that could be thrown away before he moved out. The phone rang and he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Peter? That you? It's me, Robbie Robertson."

"Oh. Hi. What's the matter?" Peter was fairly sure, though, that there was only one thing it could be- Jameson had decided to fire him, and simply didn't feel like telling him in person.

"Jameson wants to know if you've got any decent shots of the Green Goblin." Robbie said.

Peter felt a deep sense of dread. "All I've got are the ones I've sold him already. There aren't any more. Er, Robbie...why?"

"Reports have been coming in over the past few days," Robbie said. "I'm suprised Jonah didn't tell you. People have been seeing the Goblin all over the city recently...some woman claims he knocked her down in the road, and we had an old couple in here the other day saying he'd held them at gunpoint and robbed their store..."

"And you think it's the same guy?" Peter asked, keeping his voice as normal as ever. "The same guy who fought Spider-Man last year?"

"Of course," Robbie said. "Jameson assumes he was 'just taking time off for Christmas'. And I don't see how it could be anyone else...of course, I've never seen him closeup, but he _looks_ the same. And honestly... _two_ deranged green guys flying around?" He chuckled.

"Oh."

"Jameson's decided to dedicate the front page to him tomorrow," Robbie said. "' _Months after battle with Spider-Man, Goblin terrorist preys on innocent citizens'._ Or something just as sensational, anyway. So, no photographs?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm amazed you can take photos at all."

"You think he's looking for Spider-Man? I mean, you think the Goblin's going to look for him again?" The words were out before he could stop himself. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

"I don't know," Robbie said, "but if you're his friend, if you can talk to him...I'd advise you to advise him to take care of himself. Now, I must go. See you, Peter." And he hung up.

Peter put the phone down and slumped down onto the bed.

_It's not him. It can't be. You saw him die. You were at his funeral. This is someone else, some nutcase who made himself an identical costume and possibly stole a spare glider from Oscorp. It isn't Norman Osborn. It can't be._

Moving almost automatically, he got down off the bed and started picking things up off the floor, sorting them into cardboard boxes ready for removal. Clothes in that one, photographs in that one...

_It's not him. It's just some nutcase. And he probably doesn't even care who you are._

_Stop thinking about it._

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D Webb:

In February of 2003 there came an interesting development to the whole saga. It has already been viewed from almost every angle, and discussed endlessly. But analysing its importance seems almost redundant now, for we already know how the story ends.

*

3rd February 2003:

Peter awoke on the 3rd of February feeling worse than he had in ages. He had been kept awake all night by a blaring television and the faint sound of arguing, and boxes from the old apartment were strewn over the floor. He glanced around the room and decided that he really did completely hate it. He hated everything about the building.

He decided to go and get a shower. He picked himself up off the bed, gathered together his towel and soap and clothes, left the room and tramped wearily across the corridor to the bathroom. In the distracted state of mind he was in, though, he didn't notice the piece of paper stuck to the door- the piece of paper with 'LOCK NOT WORKING' written across it in biro. He opened the door- and there was someone else standing in the shower. A girl.

She blinked at him in shock- but that was all she had time to do, because he backed out of the room and slammed the door, yelling 'Sorry! I didn't see the sign!" as he did so. He fled back to his own room, practially jumped back onto the bed and groaned to himself. Great. Just great. The perfect start to a perfect day. He buried his head in his hands.

A few minutes later he heard the bathroom door click open, and he looked up- he'd left his own door open, and through it he could see the girl coming out of the bathroom, wrapped up in a towel. He realised there was only one person she could be- the daughter that Ditkovich had mentioned.

He jumped up to shut the door, but she saw him- and she blushed bright red and looked away. Peter spoke.

"I am so sorry I walked in on you like that," he said sincerely. "It was an accident."

She didn't look at his face at all. "It's okay," she murmured. "It was me who broke the lock in the first place, anyway..." She gave a quick, nervous smile, and hurried into her own room.

And that was how Peter Parker met Ursula Ditkovich.

*

3rd February 2003:

Harry was in the process of getting drunk. It wasn't the first time this had happened. Basically, he would get home from work having had no-one even really talk to him, and he would look at the sofa where the body had been, and he would wonder what Peter was doing at the moment and he just wouldn't feel like _doing_ anything, or indeed _being_ anything. Solution: get drunk.

He'd hated the alcohol the first time he'd tried it, which was a few months ago. It had burned his mouth and almost made him want to throw up. But then he'd tried it again, determined in some inexplicable way - how many times had he been mocked at school for not drinking? -and it had tasted slightly better. A few drinks later and he couldn't get enough of it.

And he still couldn't.

He sighed to himself. He tried to think of a time when he'd been completely happy. He was having trouble. Had there never been any times when he'd felt like that? God, what sort of life had he led so far?

Well...his first date with MJ had been pretty good. (Too bad it had gone irreversibly wrong later.) And there was Christmas several years ago, when it had snowed a few days after the 26th, and he'd gotten his dad's chaffeur to drive him to Peter's part of town, and they'd gone to the park and thrown snow around, and he'd felt normal for the first time in his life.

 _Why_ hadn't he appreciated what he had? Now he didn't have it, didn't have any family...Peter was the nearest thing he had...and although he knew that Peter considered him a brother, and a _younger_ brother at that, he'd never able to work out, even after several years, exactly what he felt about Peter.

He'd never realised that he ought to be happy simply because at least he had one parent, and some friends...

And the wallcrawling bastard had taken it all away.

He thought about his father. He wanted him back _so much_ it was horrible. After a month went by he was sure the feeling would start to lessen, it had to, he couldn't keep living with it- but it intensified, if anything. Now, three months had passed and he couldn't get something his father had said to him once out of his mind: _Without me, Harry, you'd be nothing._

And now he supposed he was nothing.

And he hated it.

_You're going to have to actually kill him, you know. You're going to have to kill Spider-Man. You're going to have to shoot him in cold blood, stick a knife in him, whatever...you really think you can do that?_

"I don't want to think about it," he muttered. "Not now, anyway." Even he didn't understand what he was saying. He felt pretty sick now. He sat down on the sofa- he hated sitting on that sofa, knowing there were real, not-quite-washed-away bloodstains under the cushions- and put the glass of alcohol down on the floor. He lay down and closed his eyes.

"Harry?" someone said.

_What the hell- who was that?_

He opened his eyes and sat up. It was the new housekeeper he'd hired- what was her name- Christine Steinhauer. He thought she had gone home. "What is it?" he asked.

"You shouldn't be drinking so much," she called, turning and going back into the kitchen. "Not at your age."

Why had she called him Harry? He was used to people addressing him by his last name - and really, Mrs Steinhauer _should_ , despite the fact she was at least thirty years older than him...

"What age should I drink, then?" he called after her.

"When you're old enough to understand moderation," she answered. "Look at you- stretched out on the sofa like a drunken lout in a suit. What would your father say?"

He rolled off the sofa and hit the ground.

"Very elegant," she said. "I'm going home for the night. Tomorrow morning I expect you to have cleaned up your act, young Harry."

He was so taken aback he couldn't even answer. "I...you _can't_...ur, goodnight," he said as she slammed the door behind her. The mask collection set around the room rattled in their holders at the sound.

*

A letter- Christine Steinhauer to Jim Harper:

I have done nothing to require asking for forgiveness for.

-Your mother


	9. EMILY

25th November, 1979

"Yes, I'm going to make it. Develop the whole thing. I have a team working on it as we speak-"

"Well, then, please tell him I said _no,_ I am not backing down-"

"I'm sorry, _sir_. But the Oz drug will be on the market someday, whether it takes decades or not. Tell your boss that's a _promise_."

Norman Osborn slammed the phone down. Emily Osborn glanced up at him.

"Not good news?" she asked. She made no effort to hide the faint contempt in her voice, and bit into a piece of toast. Norman sat down on the other side of the table.

"No," he said. "They don't believe in me."

Emily said nothing, just ate.

"It's ridiculous. This drug could change the way wars are fought."

"I think maybe people are a little tired of war."

"Change the way humanity lives, then."

"Uh-huh." Emily pulled the latest edition of the _Daily Bugle_ across the table, and became engrossed in that. Norman drummed his fingers on the table.

"I mean it," he said. "No-one else thinks the same way. Imagine it, Emily. If we take it far enough, we might even be able to prevent diseases, illnesses, defects. You and your mother-"

"That's enough." Emily snapped.

Silence for a while. Norman tapped the newspaper.

"The _Bugle_ is coming to interview me tomorrow, anyway," he said. "That new guy they've got, Jameson, he's written the headline already. _THE WIZARD OF OZ_ , he says it's gonna be." He said this with wonder in his voice, and a note of arrogance. "The wizard of Oz," he said again. "I could change the world, Emily."

Emily just looked at him, and turned the pages of her newspaper.

" _They're_ going to interview you?" she said darkly. "I thought I had more faith in them than that."   
 


	10. EMILY part 1

The Daily Bugle, November 1979:

THE WIZARD OF OZ

Of all the noteworthy young scientists of his generation, Norman Osborn has proved to be one of the most difficult to predict. Having already worked on the teams which brought the world some of its greatest scientific breakthroughs to date, he is now designing a new 'wonder drug' for the military: Human Performance Enhancers, also known as 'Oz'. From the most optimistic viewpoint, the drug could be ready to market in just a few years. Tests on animals have so far mostly progressed as expected- there have been persistant rumors that the drug could be linked to insanity, but everyone working on the project insists this is untrue. "99% of our tests have proved sucessful," said Osborn himself. "Now all we need is for someone with sufficient imagination to see how this drug could be applied in everyday life."   
He might be fighting a losing battle, as virtually all potential buyers view the drug with caution, but he is determined to bring his creation to the masses. "I geninuely believe," he said, "that once we perfect this formula, we can change this world for the better."

*

3rd February 2003

Christine Steinhauer turned up late the next day. Harry had wondered if she was going to come at all. He could cook food for himself, of course- well, mostly- but he just didn't _like_ it when people ran off or weren't there without explantion.

She arrived at about eight 'o clock.

"Hello, Harry," was the first thing she said after she'd let herself in. "You certainly look better this morning; well done."

Harry wanted to correct her; tell her to not use his first name- no servants of his father's had ever done such a thing- but he couldn't. He felt at times like his first name was one of the few things he had to hold on to. After all, his mother had given him his first name- he'd learned that when he was seven.

"I take it you'll be wanting breakfast," Mrs Steinhauer said.

"Yes. I will. Thanks."

She went to the kitchen, opened cupboards, took things out, put some toast in the toaster for him- and let it burn.

"Oh-" She swore, although very quietly. "Sorry. I'm a little distracted today."

He didn't ask her why.

"Doesn't matter, there's plenty of bread," he said. "But I have to hurry. Someone from the paper is coming to interview me today."

"I see." She asked no questions either. "Will they be wanting food?"

"I don't know. Stick around for a bit, I'll call if anyone asks-"

"With all due respect, Harry, if you're not sure I'm wanted I'd like very much to go home."

 _With all due respect_...he was quite certain he'd never heard that phrase directed at him before in his entire life, and it made him feel almost uncomfortable, as if she'd told him in no uncertain terms he was something he was not.

"I don't mind," he said.

"Thank you," she said, with genuine gratitude. "I'll see you tomorrow." And she was gone.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang and the people from the paper arrived.

*

The interview did not go as well as Harry expected. The interviewer - a kid barely out of high school- didn't seem particuarly interested in what Harry had to say, and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he thought he was slightly nuts.

"Thanks a ton, Mr Osborn," he said, when he (not Harry) had decided the interview was over. "Some good material here."

"I'm not convinced you were taking me seriously," Harry said.

"No, I was," The young man gave a juvenile grin. "Murdering superhero killed your father- odd that no-one saw him, but there you go-"

Harry lost his temper, something he didn't actually do all that often. Or didn't used to do all that often. "Look, you little shit. This is completely serious, okay? There are people running around out there who don't mind killing innocent people - complete nutcases who'll kill anyone who gets in their way! Look at what the Goblin did! Do you not get it- we all might be in danger."

The boy looked at him and just sniggered. "I think you've got bigger problems than Spider-Man," he said with a grin. "Now, I've gotta go and earn my paycheck-"

" _He killed one of the only people who ever meant anything to me_!" Harry knew he was shouting, shouting loudly and probably stupidly, but to have some little moron be cheeky about this, about the greatest loss he'd ever suffered, about the subject that had become his obsession, his...

_Don't say 'destiny', please don't say destiny!_

"Look," the kid said  "I've been _reading_ about this whole thing in the papers, and you know what I think? I think your father was-"

At that moment, there was a small explosion and the sound of shattering glass. The teenager stopped in his tracks, his mouth wide open and horrified.

Harry's first reaction, on the other hand, was to pretend nothing had happened.

Then he turned around.  The Green Goblin was standing in the wreckage of the window, holding an orange bomb in his hand. Harry couldn't move for a second- this was the first time he'd come face-to-face with this guy, and he had some very, very important things to ask him-

The teenage journalist fled the room, swearing and yelling as he went. He slammed the door behind him.

"We need to talk, Mr Osborn," the Goblin said mockingly.

"I'll say we do."

The Goblin looked smaller somehow, in Harry's opinion. He didn't look quite like he was capable of flinging people off bridges, although he certainly _had_...

"How are you doing over here?" the Goblin asked. "Heard about what happened. How terrible."

"Listen, what do you know about the night my father died?" Harry demanded. "I know you have to know something."

"Well...I _believe_..." Harry knew that behind the mask he had to be smirking. "that yes, Spider-Man _did_ kill your father. Bastard."

Then he vanished. Harry blinked and ran to the window, despite the fact that had he had any choice in the matter, he'd have rather just blacked out then and be done with it. He looked down...

...and Spider-Man was there, having knocked the Goblin straight out of the window and into the city below.

" _No_!" Harry yelled, despite the fact he had no idea why he was yelling it.

But there wasn't any answer. He stepped away from the window, dazed. The truth. What on earth was the truth...?

_And I have confirmation now, it was him who killed my father, it was Spider-Man's fault, I was right, I was right, I was right..._

He ran from the room.

*

The Daily Bugle, February 4th 2002:

What does the sudden dramatic return of the Goblin mean for the good people of this city? And what does it mean that he went straight for the house- and the son- of the late Norman Osborn? With so many questions up in the air, we have but two things confirmed- one, that this monster has returned and once again avoided capture, and two, that if both he and Harry Osborn are to be believed, Spider-Man was indeed the one behind Norman Osborn's death.

There is only one thing citizens can do, if they want to live once more in safety- keep a watch for either of the terrorists, be on your guard, report anything suspicious to the police. I am aware this sounds distasteful, but: even creatures such as these have family, friends, acquaintances. If you suspect someone you know is the one behind the mask, don't be afraid to turn them in- they will recieve the help they desperately need.

In the meantime, the high-powered feud seems to have once more reached a stalemate. Eyewitnesses who saw the battle claim that the Goblin suceeded in knocking Spider-Man out, and then fled the scene: he has not been seen since then...

*

3rd February 2003

Christine Steinhauer did not complain.

Her husband was _dying_ (no, he was, he really was, even _he_ knew, and if he knew how on earth could she justify denying it?), her son had all but abandoned her, despite the constant pleas over e-mail and telephone, she was slowly but surely reaching the age of forty-seven (which wouldn't really mean anything had that not been the age where her mother had calmly decided she wanted to die) and Harry Osborn, who she hadn't really planned on actually liking a little, was about to become an alcoholic, or seriously depressed at the very least. And today her husband had been sick, and it was miserable grey weather, and she just wanted to beat her head against the steering-wheel...

She might well have done, too, had she not at that moment heard a high-pitched, hysterical screaming noise. It startled her so much that she hit the brakes. She didn't move for a couple of seconds, but the screaming grew louder, and she carefully unlocked the door and stepped out.

There were no others cars around. She was alone. And the shouting was coming from a nearby alleyway. Was she _really_ stupid enough to walk in there-

Clearly, she was. She couldn't ignore agonized screaming- someone might be lying there dying. She couldn't walk away. So she walked forward, into the darkness. Walked further and further in, until she came across the sound of the noise.

It was a man, lying there mangled. His leg was twisted and his arm was bleeding, and his face was in a snarl. He was dressed in green, and next to him there was a smashed-up mask. She'd seen that mask before, hadn't she? Or one like it. On the television. Oh god, it was _him_!

Horrified, she stepped backwards. But the man coughed up blood and then spoke.

"Don't leave me!" he gasped. "Don't leave me."

Christine looked at him, and then looked down at all the blood. She swallowed. And then she lifted her head, and looked into his eyes.

"What should I do?" she asked. His face was mangled as well- cuts and scars all over- but she kept looking. Mostly because she figured she might have to describe him to the police at some point.

"Listen carefully," he gasped. "Three streets away there's a surgery. I know a doctor there and he won't ask questions. You take me there and leave me there and you'll be alright." His voice was nastier now, and colder. "If you take me anywhere other than the surgery, you'll regret it, _bitch_. If you've got a husband I'll kill him, and same for your kids."

Christine just stared. She couldn't even blink. "S-same for my kids?" she spluttered, and thought she might be sick. "Same for my kids." Her son's face hovered before her eyes. "Oh, please no...I'll take you anywhere. I'll put you in the car. But please don't hurt anyone!" She was crying now, and could barely see. "Please." She went to him, the monster in the alley, and tried to drag him to the car. Eventually, she suceeded. He helped her, pushing his good foot against the ground and holding tightly onto her arm. He got blood all over her jacket, but she didn't even notice until they were both safely in their seats and the car doors were closed. She stared down at the stain disconnectedly.

"Give me directions," she said. She didn't dare look back at him.

"Drive to the end of the road," the Goblin said, "and turn right."

She did. She did everything he asked, and eventually she pulled up around the back of the building and dragged the Goblin from the car, and left him in a heap by a door he indicated to her. And then he smiled.

"Thank you," he said, in a different voice. "What's your name?"

Christine shuddered. With tremendous effort, she turned around, ran back to the car, and drove off. The Goblin did not call after her. She stared straight ahead, keeping her eyes on the road, shocked to her very core.

 _oh my god there was a madman in my car there was a murderer in my car there was a monster in my car_ -

She reached her apartment, and raced inside, leaving the car unlocked. She didn't care now if it got stolen; the thieves were welcome to it. She ran to her room, took her bloodstained clothes off, and curled up on her bed on her underwear.

"Christine?" called a voice from the bathroom. "Christine, love, is that you?"

"I'm fine, dear," she answered, choking on her own voice.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Ricky, I'm sure." She hid underneath the covers and waited for him to come out of the bathroom. She suceeded in stopping herself shaking.

But she got no sleep that night.


	11. EMILY part 2

4th February 2003

It was a thoroughly beautiful morning- sunny, warm, calm- and Harry had decided to ruin it for himself by going for a walk in the graveyard. He needed time to think.

He'd had an interesting dream last night. He'd been walking through a forest carrying a box of photographs, and every so often one or two would fly out. At first he chased after them, and even managed to retrieve them a couple of times; but eventually they'd almost all gone and he'd given up. Various other things had randomly popped up in the dream, as well- the old apartment with blood dripping from the ceiling, the Goblin (was it really only _yesterday_ that all that had happened?) speaking with his father's voice, instead...

He was sick of waking up terrified in the middle of the night. He knew that was what he had done after his mother died, so it was only to be expected really...but the dreams were always so _real_.

As he walked down the long path that led eventually to the graveyard, he argued with himself.

 _The Goblin is a complete lunatic- he_ tried to kill MJ, _for God's sake. And you believed him? You actually believed that nutcase?_

_But you knew anyway...you knew...he just confirmed it...doesn't matter how crazy he is, if anyone would know, he would..._

_You're being an idiot. How do you know you just don't want to kill somebody? The only way this ends, Harry, is in you becoming a murderer. And you're okay with that?_

_Of course not! No!_

He stopped there. He'd reached the graveyard now, anyway. He finally became aware of his surroundings- trees, cloudless sky, a bunch of flowers clasped in his hands. He wished very, very much that it wasn't so _sunny_.

He found the grave he was looking for. He stayed a few metres away from it, as if he was scared...which he _was_. This was his father, made of stone.

"I brought these," he said very quietly, and he stepped forward and put the flowers down. Then he stepped back again, and dug his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, mostly because he couldn't really think of anything better. "I...I should've tried harder, in school and things. I knew I was disappointing you and yet I acted lazy anyway. I screwed everything up."

There wasn't any answer, obviously. He looked around. Other people were in the graveyard now, and he felt almost annoyed, like they were intruding. But of course they weren't, and he wasn't being fair. He started to leave, walking past groups of these other people as he did so. Sometimes, someone would catch his eye and nod at him- and surprised, he would nod back. It occured to him that everyone in this place had something in common- grief. He'd never felt particularly connected to the rest of the world before, and it felt odd- people who he didn't know acknowledging him merely because they _understood._

He kept walking, through the sun and the shade, until he reached the pathway again.

*

When he got back to the house, Christine was in the kitchen, cleaning it up.

"I was wondering if you'd been kidnapped," she said to him. "Your butler let me in. Where have you been?"

He didn't quite feel like telling her, but the words came out anyway. "Visiting the graveyard."

She gave him a look filled with sympathy, but when she opened her mouth all she said was "At this time of the morning? Even before you'd had your breakfast?"

"I can have my breakfast whenever I want," he said, and noted how sullen he sounded. "I'll have bacon, please, Mrs Steinhauer."

With a sigh she began preparing it for him. Harry went through to the living room and picked up the phone. He dialled Peter's number- his new number, Peter had rung and told him what it was the other day- but there wasn't any answer.

Maybe he was at school, or at the library. Well, it didn't matter. He had work to do.

"What happened yesterday?" Christine asked suddenly.

"What?" Harry said stupidly.

"You know what. Come on, what happened? That...that man..." She looked suddenly very stricken indeed. "The papers said he smashed a window open. Did you get it fixed already?"

"Yeah."

"What _happened_?"

Harry suddenly noticed that she looked almost close to tears. He flinched. "He smashed the window and came in here, said we needed to talk, but...Spider-Man showed up and dragged him off before he said anything."

Christine gawped. "Oh." She still looked stricken, and now slightly frightened. "What," she said, in a slightly trembly voice, "did he want with you? What did either of them want?"

"Nothing," Harry muttered.

"That's not all I've read in the papers," Christine continued, words rushing from her mouth. "I've read about you. Before I came here, I read, you know...about your father."

"So has everybody in the city." Harry said disconnectedly.

"What happened?" she said again.

"Spider-Man killed him, remember?" He sounded downright angry now. "That's all I know about anything."

He stormed off. Christine was left alone in the room. She felt oddly like bursting into tears, or worse, laughing - _I've got no money, my kid hates me, my husband's dying and I'm working for a madman._ She then realised she was still holding a frying pan, and she returned to the kitchen and put it away.

The house seemed horribly quiet. She sat down on the sofa and looked around, warily, as if she feared the walls might close in.

_there was a dead body in this room once_

That sudden thought made her tense, like her brain had found one little piece of information filed away and brought it out again as a warning. She'd read the papers, she'd known what she was getting into...

_there was a dead body right here on the sofa_

She jumped up like the house was burning down around her. She stared giddily around, wondering if she wasn't cracking up, and hurried from the room.

*

23rd February 2003

Christine attempted to put the whole incident behind her, and did a reasonably good job. February began to slip by quickly. Harry had his 20th birthday on the 19th and Christine was left with the unenviable task of cleaning the house after the party, turfing out the last few drunk, mouthy teens ("...fine, we'll fucking go then! What are you, his fucking mommy?") and not waking Harry, who had the mother of all hangovers, up in the morning. He had not thanked her for any of it: she assumed he had simply forgotten.

Unfortunately, on the 23rd, the whole incident was dragged up again. Christine entered a room, duster in hand, to find Harry sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper. "He's dead," he said as she came in.

"What?"

He handed the newspaper to her, and she read it.

_Bart Hamilton, 43, apparently the man behind the Green Goblin, was dropped off by Spider-Man outside the police station, tied up. The police behaved in a responsible manner: after a failed attempt to capture the wall-crawler, they took Hamilton into custody. The next morning, however- after an intense questioning (during which allegedly the police learned 'nothing useful') -he was discovered dead in his cell._

Christine looked up sharply. Harry just gave a grim little smile.

_The cause of death is so far unknown, but it is strongly suspected to be a drug overdose. Spider-Man is wanted for questioning in relation to the incident, but the police are not optimistic about tracking him down._

Christine handed the paper back. "Well," she said absently. "That's...not good."

"No," Harry said. "It's not."

"What're you going to do?" And then, because she couldn't help herself, and because she was quietly afraid that somehow Harry _knew_ about the passenger she had had in her car only three weeks ago, although he couldn't possibly, she said, "What's going on? Why do all these people come here? Why...do they come to _you_?" She stopped herself short of saying _what the hell was your father mixed up in_?

"I don't know," Harry said.

*

Emily David's Diary, 15th September 1972

Me again. I don't write in this diary enough. When I started it I wanted it to be the ultimate chronicle of my life, with everything thrown in there, but it isn't really. You haven't even met my family. There is my mom, Linda, my older brothers Andrew and Tom, one set of grandparents, and me. And before he died there was my dad: he was called Harold.

Since I figure I should be chronicling or something, here's something that happened to me today. It's small and stupid, but I thought it deserved writing down. Then one day I can tell my kids about it, or something. I wouldn't remember it otherwise. Memory's not too good.

Anyway- I work in a cafe downtown. It's alright kinda work, pays my way and things. But today I ran into a girl I knew from college, and showed her my engagement ring. I always feel like I'm saying 'look how rich I am now!' when I show it to anyone. It's a massive diamond thing. It's beautiful. But also very, well, extravagant.

I also said to her- and this is the stupid part, 'don't tell my man you saw me here, he thinks I quit, 'cos he says it's beneath me'. She looked shocked. And I suppose it does sound a bit shocking, in a way. I don't know.

Maybe I _should_ quit. I don't know. It's starting to feel like there's two sides to me, the Emily who writes and acts and tells jokes, and the Emily who will be a Wife. I don't know. Oh, that's the third time in one entry that I've said 'I don't know'. But I _don't_.

It's like I'm being drawn into a whole new world. You know?

*

12th March 2003

Just as spring was beginning to close in and the days gradually getting longer, Christine found herself having a conversation, albeit a very short one, with Bernard the butler. She had barely exchanged three words with him, despite the fact they were essentically co-workers- he was barely around, it seemed. Or he blended into the background. Either way, as she was walking down the driveway on her way home, he was sitting on the garden bench, almost as if waiting.

"How are you finding the house?" he asked.

Christine stopped walking, surprised. "Oh," she said. "Oh, um, fine."

"Recent events haven't discouraged you?"

Christine stared at him, suddenly a bit cold. "You mean the...um, no. No, I mean..." She couldn't explain her feelings: she was not _scared_ of working in the house, only wary. After all, in less than a year the house had been host to both a mysterious murder and an attack by a supervillain. "I'm not discouraged."

"Good." Bernard said, "That wouldn't do. Needs a bit more humanity in it, this house does."

"I see," Christine said helplessly.

"It's stood on it's own for so long. No love in it since Harry's mother died." He was very still while he was talking. "Almost eighteen years ago now, and I remember it clearly. I've been here for a while, Mrs Steinhauer."

Christine nodded.

"Come see me, if you want to hear any stories. Or if you have any difficulties with the house. I could use another friendly face around here."

It seemed that was his last word on the matter: he said nothing else, and Christine murmured a goodbye and hurried away. She climbed into her car (it had been cleaned, and she always kept the doors locked now) and drove off down the road.

On her way home she replayed the conversation in her mind, trying to discern if there was any hidden meaning, hidden _warning_. Christine did not know why she expected a warning; she supposed it was simply because the facts, when added up together, made a slightly chilling scene for an outside observer. _Woman takes position of housekeeper in haunted house, meets supervillain, is scared. Stays because the money is needed to help her sick husband..._

She sighed. And carried on.   
 


	12. EMILY part 3

27th March 2003

Christine was in the kitchen making Harry's dinner when a spider ran out from under one of the cupboards, and started scurrying towards her. Christine let out a little shriek, and scrambled to the other side of the kitchen.

Harry came in. "What was that?" he asked, seeing her cowering sheepishly against the wall. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Christine said, feeling foolish. "A spider made me jump, that's all."

Harry glanced around for it.

"Any chance you could get rid of it?" Christine asked. "Please? I'm sorry to ask, but I don't much like touching them."

"Yeah, alright."

"Don't hurt-"

He stamped on it.

"-it, please." Christine finished.

Harry turned and left, and Christine stared at the smudge on the floor.

*

Emily David's Diary, 6th October 1972:

My romantic relationships confuse me. My friends tell me I'm attracted to powerful men because I lost my father, but I always thought that sounded _wrong_. They were all dead surprised when they found out I was getting married, though. They're mostly independent types, who can take men or leave them.

Course, they all think I'm marrying for money, too. I don't know. I mean, I want to marry this guy! I do. But at the same time I feel like I'm on a conveyor belt or something, it's leading me somewhere and I can't get off it...

*

16th April 2003

Harry went to a friend's birthday party on the sixteenth of April: Christine offered to stay late and clean the house. Some of the rooms were in need of dusting. There were other reasons too, of course- firstly, she badly needed the money, and secondly, she thought there was a very high chance that Harry would come back drunk out of his mind, in which case she wanted to be around to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. She knew full well that such a thing wasn't her responsiblity: Harry's friends, if they were decent ones, should look after him, and if they didn't, Bernard might well at least check to see his employer got in all right...but she stayed, all the same. She spent a good half an hour talking on her cell phone to her husband until he went to bed, and then she turned her attention to the rooms. She cleaned them, as she had been told, and then...she was left alone in the big house with nothing to do. She went to the kitchen and made herself a sandwich. She ate it. And she thought.

Time ticked by. Five to midnight.

She wandered through to the front room, stood in front of the big antique mirror, and looked at herself. There were still sandwich crumbs around her mouth, and she wiped them away.

She felt strange. It was a on-the-precipice sort of feeling. It was the sort of mindset she associated with being drunk, although it had been a long time since she had gotten drunk. Not since her divorce, at least, and that had been a long time ago.

"My son says he will never go to my husband's funeral," she suddenly said to the mirror and the room in general. "And there will _be_ a fucking funeral, probably before the year is out. Everyone knows it. And he won't go. He won't care."

There was silence. She didn't feel foolish, though, not in the slightest, so she carried on. "He refused to go to my second wedding. He ran off with some _slut_ who answers all his emails, moved out to town, won't talk to me! My Ricky's _dying_ , and he won't talk to me!"

More silence.

"He hates me," Christine said quietly, and then a creeping realisation came to her: she was standing in a house not her own, without another soul in sight, talking to herself, and not feeling foolish...because something in the room was _listening_. She could _feel_ it, feel the goosebumps on her skin.

Something listening and silent and _nasty_ was in the room with her-

The phone rang.

She jumped. It was like waking from a half-asleep nightmare: suddenly most of the creepiness was gone, nothing was listening to her, she was alone again. Nervously she picked up the reciever, not knowing what on earth she would hear.

"Mrs Steinhauer?" came Harry's voice. "Can you come pick me up?"

She felt more irritated than anything else. And she still felt oddly cold. "You have drivers to pick you up. They work ten til seven. I know that means they're not around now, but carting you around isn't in my job description." Suddenly she felt almost panicked: Harry was at last thirty years younger than her but he was still her boss, strange as that was, and she had just spoken to him like a child.

"Where are you?" she asked wearily.

*

She drove her own car downtown to pick him up; she knew she won't be trusted with any of the cars in the garage. One scratch on those, she thought, and no more wages for her. Possibly no more job.

She couldn't help but still be a little irritated, though. And, although she hated to acknowledge it, there was a voice in her head saying _something major happened in that room back there: you, woman, are being drawn into a world of haunted houses._

"Didn't you enjoy the party?" she asked.

"It was alright," he answered, sounding like the stereotypical sullen teen.

"Whose party was it?" She knew it was none of her business, but she wanted to make conversation.

"My ex-girlfriend's."

"Oh."

They drove on in relative silence. But as they drove down a fairly quiet street, the lights flickering above them, Christine suddenly felt uneasy. In the same instant she knew why: Harry was the first passenger she had had in her car since the Goblin Incident, and it unnerved her. But she couldn't very well tell him to get out and walk.

Besides, she had escaped from that just fine. No harm had come to her.

"Sorry I told you to drive me," Harry suddenly said. "I should've walked."

"No," Christine answered. "I don't mind."

She flicked the radio on, so she wouldn't have to talk again.

*

It was a quarter to one before she was almost ready to leave the house for the night. Harry had gone to bed; she only had to gather her things and get back in the car. But as she walked across the mirror room, the phone rang out again.

She stopped dead, and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The phone continued to ring: she leaned towards it warily and picked it up.

"Hello?" she said. "Osborn residence," she added as an afterthought.

"Hi," said a girl's voice. "Is Harry there? Did he get back alright?"

"Oh. Yes, he did." She wondered if this was the ex-girlfriend, on the phone. "He's gone to bed. He's fine."

"Okay," the girl said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Christine answered, and hung up. The room seemed suddenly very silent indeed: she gathered her belongings and left.

*

29th April 2003

Christine soon put the events of that day- as well as previous frightening events- out of her mind entirely. She did not believe in ghosts, if she did she would go mad. She also made her best efforts to put the inhabitants of her haunted house out of her mind: it worked fine until she arrived at work one afternoon and found Harry slumped on the sofa drinking from a bottle, with two more lying at his feet.

"Are you hungry?" she asked cooly.

"No, not really." he said, barely looking at her.

"Harry- put those bottles down, will you?"

Maybe it was something in her tone of voice, but he put them down. He scowled at her, however. "I employ you. I can fire you, you know."

"But you won't, will you?" Something in her voice trembled, and Harry blushed.

"Never mind. I won't really."

Christine said nothing. Harry didn't put the bottle down, but he did glance up at her.

"This woman at work gave me a picture of my mom," he said. "When she was younger."

"Really?"

"Yeah. They went to school together...I only just found out."

Christine wasn't sure what to make of that. A few images stirred in her mind: a brunette woman in a black dress, the words _since Harry's mother died_. She wondered what precisely was going on, but it was none of her business. In the back of her head, though, she knew she would ask.

"That's nice," she said first.

Harry nodded vaguely. "Yeah. It was nice. At least I have a photo of her now."

"How did she die?"

Harry stared at her.

"I'm not telling," he muttered angrily, and dropped the bottle on the floor. It hit the carpet with a _clunk_. Then he snatched it back up again, and looked at her, a weird mixture of anger and fear in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Christine said. And then she added, because she felt she should, "Enough with the drinking- understand?"

Almost in defiance, he took one last drink from the bottle, and glared up at her. "It's not like it matters," he said. "My dad used to drink, and it never did anything to him. Took a murdering masked bastard to do that."

Christine gave up. "I'll clean up these bottles," she said. "Sir," she added pointlessly.

Harry swung his legs up onto the sofa and turned away; Christine picked up the bottles on the floor and went wordlessly through to the kitchen. When she got back Harry was asleep- fighting her annoyance, and the vague sense of despair she always carried in her, she took a blanket from a nearby chair and threw it over him. Then she wandered off to do the dusting.

*

Emily David's Diary, 11th November 1972:

When we are married, I expect we'll argue. Mom always told me that arguing was a sign of a healthy relationship, but I don't believe her. Her and my dad used to argue all the time. She was a BITCH when it came to him, actually. I was actually surprised that she cried when he died.

Anyway. After Christmas comes the wedding. I shall be married and I shall be happy and I shall be rich. I wonder what lies ahead.   
 


	13. EMILY part 4

Emily David's Diary, 17th January 1973:

My best friend, Allison, came over today. Sat me down and had a talk. She said she & the girls all thought I was making a big mistake, rushing into marriage- she said some nasty things. Said Norman had a mean nature, and it would spread to me as well. Said he cared more about money than people. Said I'd be miserable.

I thought it was a nasty thing for her to do. She said all she wanted was to help me, but I told her to leave, and she did...I'm not sure if I'll even see her again. But what sort of thing was that for a friend to do?

*

4th June 2003

Christine's birthday was the third of June. She requested a day off, and got it. It was the first good day of the year.

When she returned to work, however, she found seven empty wine bottles stacked in the kitchen. Slightly more surprisingly, Bernard was also there. He was sitting in the corner drinking a cup of coffee.

"Hi," she said automatically.

"Hello," he replied.

Christine found herself pulling up a chair next to him. She felt tired now, tired and discouraged. It was returning to work which had done it. "Remember you said to come to you if I wanted to hear any stories?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you could tell me about Harry's mother."

"Ah." Bernard put his coffee cup down. "What would you like to know?"

"The basics, really. How did she die?"

"It was a very long time ago," Bernard said thoughtfully. "My memory might not be entirely reliable." Christine waited. "It was an illness. Heart problems, you see. The pregnancy didn't help, but she wasn't one to dwell on it. Not until the child was born. Her world seemed to get a little darker then." He picked his coffee cup up and stared at her over the rim of it.

"Postpartum depression?" Christine asked.

"Who knows. Bit late to consider those things now. Either way, the girl- she's a girl in my head- I doubt she had anywhere to turn to. Certainly not her husband. She had an unhappy marriage, a fairly serious heart condition, and a child to raise. I wasn't surprised when she died, you know. Sad but not surprised."

"Oh," Christine said glumly.

Bernard leaned forward as if about to reveal a dark secret, but all he actually said was, in a low voice, "You keep an eye on her son, Christine."

Christine blinked. "Alright," she said stupidly, and then she found herself back in reality, saying, "I suppose I had better clean this kitchen."

"You do that," Bernard answered. He got up to leave, but Christine suddenly realised something.

"I don't actually know her name."

"Emily," Bernard answered.

Christine repeated it to herself. "Thank you," she said.

"My pleasure."

He left the room, and Christine rose from her chair and began to shift the glass bottles to the trashcan.

_you keep an eye on her son, christine_

She sighed. Her mind would not allow her to think about Emily; when she thought of the word _dead_ she thought of her husband. And she didn't, _couldn't_ , think about that.

*

7th June 2003

A few days later, in the evening, Christine took five minutes off. She lay on the sofa where a corpse had been recently found, and let thoughts pushed away back into her mind.

 _Hello, Emily, I'm Christine. I'm sorry but I really can't look after your son at all: this is just a job, and I have enough problems of my own without worrying about anyone else's. I_ am _sorry, but I am convinced you couldn't possibly have been a worse mother than I have been._

Music drifted in from the corridor.

_You know, Emily, a lot of things have happened to me, and I feel guilty for dwelling on them, because others have it harder. I don't know if that's a stupid thing or not. I used to want to be somebody- I wanted all sorts of things that I didn't get, and got a couple of things which I stupidly lost. Perhaps it was the same for you._

She then realised she was speaking in her head to a dead woman, and the thought made her jump. But not much. She simply rose from the sofa, craziness burning at the back of her brain, and went to locate the source of the music. She stopped in front of Harry's room; the music was blaring out from there.

She knocked.

Harry opened the door. "What?" he demanded, and Christine realised she had nothing to say. It was as if all conversations were now regulated to her head.

"The music is quite loud," she said stupidly. "Can't you turn it down?"

Harry stared at her like she'd grown another head. "Why?"

"Fine. It doesn't matter," she found herself saying, although her voice seemed to be coming from far away. She glanced into Harry's room, and was surprised to find that it looked like any average young man's room. There were even socks strewn about the floor.

"Alright," Harry said. "Fine. I'll turn it down." He ducked back into his room and flicked a switch: the music went off.

"You didn't have to do that," Christine said wearily. "You're my boss."

Harry said, "Are you all right?"

Christine stared in befuddlement. She hadn't expected that.

"Not really," she said. "I'm tired." She was. She was also near tears, but she knew that breaking down would do her no good. "I'd like to go home early, if that's alright."

Harry nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Alright." He looked tired too, tired and sad, like he almost always did. And also, incredibly young, all of a sudden.

Christine retreated to get her things. On the way, she passed the mirror, and saw a miserable, pale old woman looking back at her. She sighed, and gathered her bag, and walked back across the room. Harry was lying on the sofa now, listening to his iPod instead.

_you keep an eye on her son, christine_

"What are you listening to?" she found herself asking.

Harry removed one of his earplugs. "Dunno, actually. Nothing good."

"You don't know?"

"My ex-girlfriend, when she wasn't my ex-girlfriend...she put a bunch of unnamed stuff on here, and I dunno how to get rid of it. It's on shuffle," he said vaguely. He pulled the other earplug out.

Christine remained where she was. She had sent her son an iPod, in the Christmas of 2002, and had recieved nothing in return.

" _Anything_ good on there?"

"A bit."

Christine was silent, preparing to say goodnight and leave, but somehow she couldn't. Emily was staring at her from her picture frame.

"I like music." she said quietly. "I used to want to be a music teacher. When I was little."

"Yeah," Harry said morosely. "Guess lots of people wanted to be things they never got to be."

Christine paused. "What's your favourite song?" she asked, keeping her tone light.

Harry thought about it for a few seconds. " _Bohemian Rhapsody_ by Queen."

 _I'm just a poor boy nobody loves me_ , Christine sung in her head. "That's a good song," she said out loud. "Yeah."

"What's your favourite then?"

"I'm an Elvis fan," She grinned. "Got it off my son. He could do a mean Elvis impression." Her face clouded just for a second. "Sing something," she said recklessly.

"What?"

"Any old thing. I bet you could."

He gave her a suspicious look. "Why?"

"It might cheer you up."

He rolled his eyes, just a bit. "What should I sing?" But he wasn't angry with her, or sneering at her...or firing her.

"Whatever you like," Christine said, feeling faintly embarrassed now. "And I can advise you on how badly you're singing it."

Harry gave a vague grin. "Alright," he said, to Christine's surprise, and he launched into Johnny Cash's _Hurt_. Christine listened intently: he was actually rather good. Not brilliant by any stretch of the imagination, but not bad. And hell- he was smiling. A bit.

After the third verse, he trailed off. Christine realised she was grinning like a loon.

"That was good," she said truthfully.

"You gonna put me on Broadway?"

"Maybe some other time."

The conversation slowed to a stop.

"I'd better be going," Christine said. "Goodnight,"

"Night," Harry said, putting the earplugs in again. "See ya tomorrow."

Christine headed for the door. She waited for Harry to call her back or say something to her, but he didn't. She went out of the room, down the stairs, outside and to her car.

*

Emily David's Diary, 3rd February 1973:

I have been a married woman for several days now. It's...how do I put this...it's a good life. Everything I want, I get. Parties, clothes, shoes, people tidying up after me. I used to be a waitress, for God's sake. Cooking and waitressing for very little money. I keep looking around me and how impossible it is that this is now my life.

But, it is my life. I'm married I'm married I'm married I'M MARRIED.

*

11th June 2003

Christine was cleaning a desk when a spider- a small black one, like the one she had previously encountered in the kitchen- ran out from behind a pile of paper. She glared at it crossly, and wondered what to do. She hated the thought of having to pick it up- what if it ran up her sleeve?- but she didn't want to just leave it, either. It was getting in the way.

"You alright?" a voice asked.

She turned around and saw Harry. "Just another spider," she said, and swept a pile of dust from the table.

"I'll get rid of it for you," he said. He picked up a newspaper from the sofa, and rolled it up- and Christine, in annoyance, snatched it from him. "Come on," she said. "It's never done a thing to you."

Harry turned away sullenly, and Christine gritted her teeth and gingerly cupped her hands around the spider. She went to the only open window, released it onto the windowsill, closed the window again, and resumed work.

"It shows a mean nature, to kill creatures like that," she said, to break the silence. She sounded different from how she had intended- like a disapproving schoolteacher, or a mother, or something- and embarrassed, she turned away and continued her work.

"I'm going out," Harry muttered. There was something in his voice she couldn't read. If she had to make a guess, she would have said it was worry.

"Yes," she answered. "Sir."

The door closed.


	14. EMILY part 5

20th June 2003

Harry was once more having a nightmare. He had long ago come to the conclusion that his mind was simply weak enough to let them in.

It was dark. It was slowly getting darker. There was metal beneath his fingers and dust in the air, and the sky was crashing down into his eyes. In the next moment, he was looking down at something, or possibly someone, on the ground. It might have been his father. Whoever he or it was, he had a hole in him. He'd been impaled, and blood was trickling out.

_Christine? Christine come and wake me up I've had enough of this I'm scared!_

But he didn't wake up, and the fact that he knew it was a dream made it worse: what sort of sick freak had dreams like this? The person on the ground stared up at him, and Harry stared back. He thought he could see Spider-Man down there somewhere too, but things were going black.

Oh God, was he watching his father die? Well, this _was_ a fucking inventive new form of torture the world had found for him.

Someone in the background was crying. He only noticed it after a few moments, but he wondered what that was about. One thing was certain; they weren't crying for him. He could feel something in his hand, a sword, a knife, or someone _else's_ hand-

_Christine? MJ? Peter? Dad?_

_Mom?_

Finally, he woke up.

He looked at his hand: nothing in it. But the crying- it hadn't stopped. _That_ had been real. He sat up and looked at the clock: seven minutes to midday. Was Christine in already-?

It was _her_ crying. Wasn't it? It couldn't be anybody else.

He got out of bed and pulled a dressing gown on. He felt- odd, like he was still dreaming, although his dreams were never this calm. He unlocked the door and stepped into the corridor. It was indeed Christine out there: she was leaning against the banister and crying.

"Hello," Harry said stupidly.

Christine jumped. And then she turned around, slowly.

"Harry," she said, and rubbed her face. She scowled. "I'm sorry. Shouldn't be crying at work."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know how to comfort people, especially not people like Christine. "What's the matter?" he finally said. He thought that sounded a bit rude, so he also said, "I mean, are you alright?"

"I don't know," Christine answered. She looked at the floor. "Do you know about my husband?" she said, talking to the floor rather than to him.

"No."

"He's sick. He's getting worse."

"Oh," Harry said, wondering why he could only manage words of one syllable. "I'm sorry."

"Why? It isn't your fault." She swiped at her face again. "D'ya want breakfast?"

Harry looked at her. There were dark circles under her eyes, and worry lines across her forehead. She looked like she, too, had nightmares. Furthermore- for the first time- he realised that his mother, had she lived, might have grown to look a little like Christine.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she turned away. "Breakfast," she said firmly. "Everyone must eat."

Harry followed her downstairs and through doors, a child trailing an adult. "Christine-" he said.

"What?"

What he wanted to say came out as, "Why...are you always nice to me?"

She turned around, a faintly cross expression on her face, which soon softened. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well-"

"I'm your employee," she said glumly. "I should be nice."

They held each other's gaze for a few seconds. Then Christine shook her head.

"I'll make you your breakfast. Go and work, or whatever it is you do."

*

After making Harry's breakfast and cleaning up the kitchen, Christine had left. She had barely spoken a word to him, largely for fear she would break down in tears. Proper, furious tears, not the moping about and sniffing that she'd been doing previously. And it wouldn't be particularly fair on him, something like that.

She put Harry from her mind, and went to the library. She tried to make eye contact with the people walking past her, and she failed. So she kept her head down, and went inside the building, and finally sank down next to a computer. She covered her eyes for a moment or two: no-one around asked if she was all right. She took a deep breath, and logged on to her email account.

She clicked on the last message.

_he doesn't want to talk to you. he told me he just wants to be left alone. me and him are going to get married & leave the country, and that's all he wants me to say. all matters are closed, from here._

"Bitch," Christine hissed, very quietly, and she regretted it instantly. She hit reply.

_No, matters are NOT closed_

She deleted that one. Tried again.

_Please, he's my son and I want to talk to him, please can't we arrange something_

At the start of all the godawful fights that tore her family to pieces, she had promised herself she would never beg. Clearly, that had changed. She stared at the screen as if trying to fall through it.

Something shot past the window. The kid on the computer next to her glanced up.

"Dude! Look who it is!"

Christine looked out of the window and saw nothing. With a sigh, she went back to the email. She spent another minute staring hopelessly at it, another minute trying to write something, and another two minutes trying to distract herself with Solitaire. When she tried again to write, she was three words in-

_look, I love_

-when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around warily, and gawped at who it was.

"Harry?"

He nodded. He looked so out of place in the library it wasn't even funny. It was as if he had suddenly put a new face on. "Hi," he said.

"You didn't follow me here?"

"Sort of. I went to a meeting...I sort of...left." For one very brief second, he looked livid. "They insulted my father, so I walked out. I got driven about for a bit, and I saw you, and you looked really...sad, so I got my driver to stop and I followed you in."

Christine nodded. She also subtly closed the email, before Harry had a chance to look at it. "Well," she said. "That was nice of you."

"Are you alright?" he said quietly, for the second time that day. "D'ya want time off, or something?"

"No. Work keeps me going. Always did."

Harry nodded. He pulled a spare seat over and sat down, and then someone nearby gave a shout.

"He's back again! Look outta the window! Spider-Man's out there!"

Harry was up like a shot, knocking Christine's arm as he went. He scrambled to the window, and yanked it open, and leaned right out. "Where?" he demanded.

"Right there!" an excited teenaged girl yelled out, also leaning out and pointing. "On that building!"

Christine carefully rose and went to the window: everyone else was crowding around as well.

"He's got someone!" another young girl squeaked.

"In a _web_!"

"Is he gonna drop him?"

A thunderous expression on his face, Harry broke away from the small crowd around the window, and marched to the door. Christine stared after him in surprise. Only when he was a few paces from the door did he even remember she was there: he turned around and spoke to her.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and ran away.

Christine stared.

"He's gone!" someone at the window called.

"What d'ya s'pose happened?"

"I'm gonna call the newspapers!"

People wandered off again. Christine was the only one left at the window, and she could see Harry out there. He was staring skywards furiously, and he didn't look back at her. Eventually he got in his car, though, and drove off.

She stayed at the window for a few more moments. Then she went back to the computer, and closed the email. As she did, she felt a cold, angry _thud_ in her stomach- and paid it no attention.

*

Emily David's Diary, 21st November 1974:

Tonight we went to a massive party to celebrate something or other that Norman's company did. I have no idea what, I'm sorry. He doesn't tell me these things anyway. My job is to stand around in my pretty black dress and smile.

I sound very bitter. I had a bit to drink. Didn't embarass myself, least I'm almost certain not, but I felt sick all the way back. Now I wanna take my pretty self to bed. I wish my face was torn off, no rich man wants anyone ugly for a wife. Wanna go on the balcony and look down, but I don't trust myself to. When on that balcony it's a long way down to the road. Good way to kill yourself, I always thought.   
Just count to ten and fling yourself off. You'd get plenty time to consider what would happen when you hit the ground.

You'd just have to make sure you didn't start to feel too happy, on the way down.


	15. EMILY part 6

Emily David's Diary, 4th January 1975:

I have noticed that I only turn to this diary when something bad happens. Today my mom died. I just looked back through the diary and the last thing I said about her I called her a bitch. She wasn't a bitch! Oh fuck, I'm the most pathetic person in the world. I don't know what to do now. Norman called me from the office and tried to comfort me but it didn't work. Oh Christ I feel just like a little kid and I want to cry.

I think I will. I'm going to scream and hit my head til I go mad.

*

13th July 2003

Christine did not think much about her childhood. She had not been close to her older brother or her now-dead father, she had not had many friends, and her mother had commited sucide at the age of forty-seven. On the 13th of July 1984, exactly eighteen years ago. On a beautiful summer's day.

And then, after that, more misery for her- a failed marriage, an absent son, and a dying husband.

_You do not complain, you do not complain._

But whenever she went over her problems in her mind, a nasty streak of _things could be worse_ ran through them. Her son could be dead- she could be jobless and impoverished- any number of things could have happened but had not.

Hell, _she_ could be dead. The night she had met the Goblin, he might have cut her throat.

She sighed.

And then she felt something.  A tiny movement in the corner of her eye, like footsteps in the room. A shudder running through the house, into the mirror, into her. For one split second she was plunged into coldness, and she backed away.

"That was strange," she said out loud. She glanced back at the mirror, half expecting to see a different reflection there- her mother's, perhaps- but there was only her. She went forward cautiously, and put her hand on the glass.

There were footsteps behind her- she definately heard them, this time- and suddenly she was so scared she couldn't turn around. _If you turn around_ , a voice in her head said, _you'll die, just like your weakling mother. Go!_

She went. She ran from the room and raced down the stairs, eyes half closed and hands gripping her cleaning cloth. In the corridor she gasped for breath, and then she ran right out of the house, got into the car and went home.

She didn't fully regain her senses until later, when she reasoned with herself. Whatever ghosts lived up there in the Osborn manor had nothing to do with her. She was not the heroine of some gothic novel, she was being an idiot, and she was going straight back into work tomorrow.

*

14th July 2003

She didn't. She woke up in the middle of the night with a splitting headache, and called in sick.

"It's stress," Ricky said helplessly, doing his best to console her. "Because of what day it was yesterday. Christine?"

"I'm all right," she said glumly. Those three words might have been her catchphrase. "I'm just going to check my email." But she stayed at the computer for almost an hour, staring at the screen the same way she had done in the library.

 _Jimmy, yesterday was the day your grandmother died_ , she wrote. _Perhaps for her sake, you will email me back._

She chewed her finger.

_And don't get Lisa to do it for you. You know perfectly well we need to talk._

Suddenly, her hands were flying over the keys.

_How can you stay away? Listen to me, kid, I'm your mother, you have to listen, please. You don't even know what life is like now. Ricky's dying, you know that, and you still won't call. Dying! And I have a job as a housekeeper in a house where somebody died. There's only a kid there now, bit younger than you, an alcoholic and an orphan. Mom dead and father murdered, in fact._

_Listen...it just seems like everyone's lives are so difficult, and we can either check out like my mom did or stay in the game. Please answer. Please._

She didn't hit the send button straight away. She read and reread. She said not said _sorry_ , or _I love you_.

Although a part of her badly wanted to, she did not add those extra words. She pressed send, sat back and watched, and realised uncomfortably that she wanted to make her son feel guilty. She wanted to make him suffer for ignoring her.

She wanted to _hurt_ him.

_oh, there's something in that house that preys on Bad Parents-_

Her head pounding, she retreated. She felt like she was going mad.

*

Emily David's Diary, 13th January 1975:

Me and Norman went to the funeral. My brothers were there, and my grandma & grandpa, and they gave us both...looks. Not nasty looks, but I can't describe them properly. It was just that I felt so, so cut off when they looked at me like that. Like I was floating out in space and someone cut the wire.

There's so much stuff I've never mentioned, diary. Now is as good a time as any. My mom died from a heart condition- Romano-Ward Syndrome, that's the one. Not well known, but it did it's job and killed her. She went into cardiac arrest and died.

Here's the kicker, diary. I have it too. Kid has a 50% chance of inheriting it: my brothers don't have it but I do. It's one of those things that beats away in the background of my life: I don't bring it up in casual conversation, try not to think about it, but _this_ has brought it all up again. It probably won't kill me, and Norman says he doesn't care about it, but...it is there, and it will always be there, and my mother is _dead_.

*

24th July 2003

Christine and Harry sat on opposite sides of the Mask Room. Harry was drinking from a glass of wine, Christine was doing nothing. It was quiet.

It was also ten 'o clock at night. Christine had finished her work. Harry didn't know why she was still in the house, and why he hadn't told her to go home.

Christine said, out of the blue, "You look like your mother, you know,"

Harry stared at her. She gestured to the portrait of the brown-haired woman on the wall, and then back to Harry. He was drunk out of his mind, but he was beginning to think that she was as well. "No I don't."

Christine shrugged.

"She died when I was little."

"Yeah. Bernard told me."

"My dad said she got sick, and she didn't want to get better." Harry said, words rushing out of him. "Said sometimes she wouldn't take her pills, or go to the doctor's."

"I'm sorry," Christine said, but Harry barely heard her.

"She was _weak_." It was the drink talking, and when he was drunk he cared little for other people's reactions, but at the expression on Christine's face he tried to backtrack.

"I mean-"

But he hadn't meant anything. He'd sounded like his father, in fact.

Christine looked at him with something that might have been fury. She started to say something, then changed her mind and started again. "I thought you'd like to know," she said quietly, "that my mother killed herself at the age of forty-seven. Many years ago. Still hurts."

Harry was the one lost for words now. He put his glass down on the nearest table, and wondered what he ought to do.

"Oh," he said eventually. "Sorry."

"And of course," Christine went on wearily, "you've just said exactly what I've loathed myself for thinking about her, so there. Now go throw your drink away, young man, and go to bed. I want to get home before midnight."

Harry had no intention of doing anything of the sort. "You're not my... _babysitter_ ," he said eventually, after three failed attempts to pronouce the last word.

Christine did not answer with _No, I'm your friend_ \- which was probably just as well, as Harry would most likely have forgotten it by morning. "No," she said, "but you pay me to be around and clean your house. And god knows where my next paycheck will come from if I get here tomorrow and find you face-down in a pool of your own vomit. Bed. Now."

Harry mumbled something that sounded a bit like _you're not my_ , but she ignored it. She watched as he struggled up from the sofa, and staggered down the hall. Feeling a bit stupid, she followed him, just in case he fell over.

"Why'd your mom do it?" he suddenly asked, stopping in his tracks. He leaned against the wall. "Did she get sick, like mine?"

Christine stared at him in frustration. She was glad frustration was all it was: if anyone else had asked that question she'd have been livid. She decided not to consider why she was making exceptions for Harry.

"No. She was just depressed. Over my father, and over money, and then one of her friends died- it just got worse and worse and we didn't notice." She blinked, just a bit. "She did it in July, in the middle of summer. I never understood that at all- how it could be all sunny outside and cheerful, with kids running about and people talking about vacations- and then...doing that." She looked up at him. For a split second she wanted to say _you're lucky you don't remember what happened to your mom_ , but then she realised that that statement wasn't true.

"I don't think my mom was depressed," Harry said, still slurring his words a bit. "She just gave up. Didn't want to fight for us." He paused for a second. "But she was sick," he added helplessly. "She probably hated being sick..."

"Yes," Christine said, in mild despair. There was silence for five seconds. She wanted to say something sensible and reassuring and _good_ , like _I'm sure if your mother could see you now she'd be proud_. But she couldn't. What she wanted to say the most was _Harry, no mother ever gives up on their children._ But that one wasn't true: she had proof. Hell, she practically _was_ proof.

"Go on," she said. "Get some sleep."

He staggered down the corridor to his room with barely a backward glance, and she heard a _thudding_ noise. She sighed, and stood still for a minute, pulling herself together. Then she left the house, her brain draining itself empty as she clambered into her car.

She found herself longing for a miracle, for a get-out-of-jail-free card, for some sort of magical intervention. She would wish for her husband to get better, for her son to contact her, for money and security, and possibly- possibly- for Harry to get his father back. And his mother, too.

The next day, she would discover something in the house that would not quite change her life forever. There was only one thing in the house that would really change her life at all, and he was passed out in a bedroom upstairs.   
 


	16. EMILY part 7

Emily David's Diary, 5th September 1978

I can't explain anything, diary, not without resorting to cliches. I've been told by 'friends'- some friends- that I'm in a loveless marriage and should check out, but. But. But. Keep remembering that conversation I had with Allison before I got married. Haven't even seen Allison for years, now. And she was my best friend.

He called me a gold-digger the other day, and said I only stuck around for the money. Didn't hit me though. Never hits me. Doesn't want children. I do. Time is ticking, after all.

I don't know what to do. Have an affair, like some little tart. Stick around and do nothing with my life. Insist he sees things from my point of view. Do nothing. Run away. I don't know. My heart goes so crazy these days. Somebody help me.

_*_

25th July 2003

Christine found the diary as night drew in, when she was cleaning out a cupboard and feeling, not unreasonably, slightly sorry for herself. The cupboard was in the kitchen. It had fallen out of use, and all that were in it were some old and dusty cookbooks. Christine shifted them to one side- and something fell down from the back of the shelf, and hit the bottom of the cupboard.

It looked like a child's notebook. It was dark green, and had a name doodled in pink on the front.

EMILY, it said.

Christine looked around the darkening kitchen, reached into the cupboard, and pulled it out. Her heart was beating crazily in her mouth. She finished her work, packed her cleaning cloths away, and picked up the book.

_This is a invasion of privacy. You will get fired. Have no money. Have one more person despising you._

She ignored the voice in her head. No-one would see her reading the diary, she was perfectly safe. And she would just take one look, just one tiny little peek, and then put it away again.

She opened it.

The clock in the kitchen ticked away seconds, then minutes. Half an hour passed. Christine did not put the book away, and when she looked up the room was dark and her eyes hurt. Moving quietly, like a shadow, she flicked on the lights, and moved to the cupboard, and carefully placed the book exactly where it had been.

Then, feeling horrible and weak and disgusting, she started to cry.

*

Emily David's Diary, 18th June 1980:

Breakin my silence now, diary! I'm pregnant. Jesus Christ, I'm pregnant! My brain's gone to _mush_.

I tricked him, you see, diary. I told him I was taking the necessary methods, and of course I had no intention of doing that. I made out it was an accident- and I refused point blank to get rid of it. He came round in the end- I guess aside from anything else, Getting Rid Of It, if word got out, might affect his standing in his company- that must have been what made up his mind.

I can't believe I did something so... _major_. Oh God, if you'd told me ten years ago that I'd want a baby and trick my husband into getting me pregnant, I wouldn't have believed you. But it's just...every day I feel more and more disconnected, and I want something to connect to. I want it so bad. A kid. Oh my god.

I pray it all turns out alright.

*

26th July 2003

The next day Christine stood in front of the mirror.

_It's me again, Emily. I think I'm going mad. There's something in this house, isn't there? There's something in this house that's evil and old and I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm just an old woman. I've lost a lot. And I want it back so bad._

She put her hand on the mirror. It was freezing. She withdrew it.

_What do I do Emily what do I do?_

Something thudded dully in her brain.

_Wait. You're not talking to Emily..._

She stared into the mirror, and something horrible was staring out. She gasped, stumbled back, and fell against the sofa. She heard a laugh lifting through the room, and wild, cackling words-

_It's me, Christine! The solution to your problems! The wizard of Oz! Make a wish!_

-and Christine jammed her eyes shut. For one split second she geniunely expected to die, and then her eyes popped open almost against her will, and everything was quiet. The room was empty. There was nothing in the mirror except for her reflection.

She got her breath back and stood up. She walked through to the kitchen as if nothing had happened, sat herself down.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said a voice.

Christine nearly had a heart attack. "Yes," she choked. "I did."

Bernard pulled a chair up next to her. "What sort of ghost?" he asked, his eyes dark. "If you don't mind telling me."

"Um. It was something in the mirror." Christine whispered. "One side of it's face was all mangled. Like the Phantom of the Opera." _Christine, that's all I ask of you,_ she sung bleakly in her head.

Bernard waited for her to continue.

"Looked a bit like Harry," Christine finished weakly.

*

28th July 2003

_What do I do Emily what do I do?_

There had been no mysterious happenings for two whole days: Christine would have been fine with this if not for the feeling that the world had planned something even worse for her.

_Emily what IS it? You haunt this house just the same as the Other Thing does, what do you want?_

There was, of course, no answer.

_Is this something to do with Harry? With what I saw in the mirror?_

Still no answer. She silenced the voice in her head and went about her work.

*

12th August 2003

The clocks ticked away the weeks. Nothing happened. The diary remained in the cupboard gathering dust, and Christine saw nothing else in the mirror.

_Is it a warning, Emily? Is it a warning to not let happen to me what happened to you?_

*

Emily David's Diary, 23rd June 1980:

Oh diary, it won't turn out alright, and I may well end up one of the only people in history to _literally_ die of a broken heart.

*

19th August 2003

"Something has happened," a sad voice said.

Harry turned around. It was eight o' clock in the morning, and he'd fallen asleep on the sofa again. "What?"

Christine was standing in the doorway. Her eyes were red and her face puffy, and she seemed to have aged about ten years from the last time he'd seen her. "My husband died last night."

Harry could think of nothing to say. His mind went completely blank. "I'm sorry," he finally managed to say. And then, stupidly, "Take the day off work, huh?"

Christine said nothing in reply. She wandered over to the sofa and sat next to him.

"I can't believe he's gone," she whispered. "I can't believe he was fine yesterday and gone today." She wasn't even looking at him, just staring off into the distance. "Oh Christ, all I can do is spout cliches." She started to cry, and Harry was suddenly certain she would start screaming _bring him back_ at the ceiling, or hitting the wall with her fists, or drinking vodka til she dropped. But she didn't do any of the things that he had done: she just went slowly quiet.

"I'm leaving," she said. "I'm going back to London, probably. My cousin lives there, she might take me in."

"Okay," Harry said stupidly. There was a few minutes silence, and then he said, "Isn't there anyone you can go to? I mean, in New York."

"Like friends?" Christine said heavily. "No."

Another pause.

"D'ya want a drink?" Harry said.

" _No_."

"Wait, when are you leaving?"

She gave a heavy sigh. "As soon as possible." And then, "I'm sorry."

"Are you gonna be alright?" Harry found himself asking.

"Yeah," she said miserably. "I'll be alright."

Harry badly wanted to say something smart, something that would make things a little better. He couldn't think of a thing. The only thing he could think of was _at least he wasn't murdered, that's even worse_ \- and he hated it. He didn't say it.

"I know how you feel," he finally managed to say.

"Yes," Christine said. "I know."

She then pulled a handkerchief from her pocket- like someone's grandmother, Harry thought- and blew her nose on it. Then she started crying again. Harry gingerly reached forward and put his hand on her shoulder.

*

28th August 2003

On Christine's last day it was blisteringly hot. That depressed her more than a miserable day would have done. She had, after all, just attended her husband's funeral, and her son had not shown up. She had not had a proper night's sleep for weeks, and her clothes were sticking to her skin.

On entering the house, the heat was almost unbearable- no-one had bothered to turn on the air conditioning. She went around and opened all the windows instead. That minor inconvience had the usual effect upon someone who was grieving: she sat down on the sofa and started to cry all over again.

Someone walked up behind her.

"I made you some cake," Harry said.

Christine looked up. He was standing there with a plate, and on it was what appeared to be a slice of chocolate cake.

"Really?" she said.

"Yeah. From a mix."

Christine took it. "Thank you," she said. She dried her face. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to cheer you up."

"Thank you."

He sat next to her on the sofa. "How are you?"

"My plane tickets arrived from my cousin," Christine said. She took a bite of cake. It was quite nice. "Went to my husband's funeral- my son didn't come-" A pause. "I like the cake."

"Thanks."

As she ate, Harry rushed on. "You don't have to stay today if you don't want to. You can go home."

"Thank you," Christine said. In truth she wanted to say a great deal more, but she had no idea where to begin. _Harry, there's something in the house and I think it's after you? Harry, I keep seeing things in the mirror? Harry, I think something extremely bad is going to happen?_

But she couldn't muster a sense of urgency. It was now, she felt, was entirely out of her hands.

She finished the cake.

"I'll put the plate away for you," she said, realising she couldn't even look at him. She walked into the kitchen, washed the plate and put it back, and then dug her hand into her pocket. She found a pen. She considered things. And then she wrote on the back of a shopping list-

_harry look in the cupboard there's something in there you should see. christine_

\- and left the note on the table. She had expected to feel like her hand had been guided. It hadn't. Strange.

She went back to the other room.

"I'll go now," she said softly.

*

Harry walked with her to her car. Christine spent those few minutes desperately trying to think of something to say- something that would drive away the hauntings, explain everything that had happened, and would keep Harry safe.

_you keep an eye on her son, Christine_

But she hadn't. Not really. She'd failed, she'd failed _everything_ , and she couldn't even bring herself to care as much as she might have done. Not now that Ricky was dead.

She climbed into the car.

"Bye, Christine," Harry said.

"Bye, Harry," Christine said hopelessly. "See you around."

She turned the ignition key. Harry leaned in through the open window.

"Are you gonna be alright?"

"I haven't been alright for a very long time," Christine answered. "Maybe one day I will be." She gave him a searching look. She needed to say something else.

"You have a choice," she finally said. "Please remember that." In her head that advice sounded stupid and corny, and said out loud it didn't sound much better. But at least she'd said it.

She waved. And drove away.

*

Emily David's Diary, 27th February 1981:

I don't know what will become of me, diary. I've been crying for it seems like weeks and I hurt so bad. I've had the baby. It was a boy. Named him after my dad.

Don't want to see it. Feel fucked in the head. Oh god, I have a feeling I've done something terrible.

*

29th August 2003

_oh Christine you're only human there was nothing you could do_

She sat in traffic on the way to the airport, underneath a darkening sky. The air was heavy and humid. There would likely be a thunderstorm. Probably quite soon.

_Christine, it all meant nothing. It was out of your hands. Emily's dead. Look, it was probably all in your mind. You just went a little crazy._

Thunder rolled overhead. Christine shifted the car forward, and rolled up the window.

_That thing in the house, Christine, oh, it was only your guilt. Just the thing that preys on Bad Parents._

She'd been irrelevant to everything. She'd simply been an intruder in that old, dark house. And she didn't want to think about it anymore.

The first drop of rain fell on the window.

_At least you found the diary. At least Harry might finally learn about his mother. That's something. Surely that's something._

She drove slowly on. Another drop of rain fell, and a cold wind blew through New York.

Christine had left the window open in the Osborn kitchen, and for two whole days it hadn't been closed. A draft blew through the room, picked up the note which Harry hadn't even found yet, and blew it under the cupboard with the dust and the spiders, out of sight.

*

Emily David's Diary, 9th July 1983:

I'm writing this from hospital. It's midnight.

It's been a while. Harry is two years old now. He doesn't see me often. He's looked after by nannies, or Bernard, who Norman named godfather, and it breaks my fucked-up heart. He looks like his dad, and not like me.

I keep feeling like I should write something important. Write something _good_. Can't think of a thing. I'm lying in a hospital bed and for all I know I might die in a year, or a month, or a week. I oughta get something right. I feel like I've been pulled along on invisible ropes all my life and never done a single thing properly.

I love you, kid. You'll be a good man someday.

I pray that means as much to you someday as it does to me right now.


	17. CINDERELLA

19th July 1983:

Rosie Octavius sat in the hospital waiting room, waiting for her husband to pick her up. It was white, brightly lit, sterile and cold, with no other human within reaching distance. She had never wanted to cry more in her entire life.

_I'm so sorry, Mrs Octavius, but the facts must be made clear: giving birth to a child will kill you._

It was dark outside. It was midnight, after all. Rose stared out of the window, watching for a car, and then turned her attention back to the room. Otto probably had a good few more miles to drive. He wouldn't show up for a while yet.

She picked up a magazine from a coffee table, and used it to hide her face. She was certain she would soon burst into tears in the waiting room, and she wasn't sure what she would hate more: everybody noticing or nobody noticing.

A name caught her eye. She had just been scanning the magazine, taking nothing in at all, but at the sight of that name, her memory had given a jolt. She stared, trying to locate a time and place in her mind. She succeeded.

Emily Osborn, formerly Emily David. Rosie had gone to school with her. Been in the drama club with her, even. They hadn't been friends, only the vaguest of acquaintances- the last time Rosie had spoken to her, she had been engaged, apparently to somebody incredibly rich, who had bought her a diamond ring. Rosie thought she could remember that ring, somewhere in the back of her mind, and Emily's half-cheerful, half-wary expression.

And now she was dead. She'd left behind her husband and a two-year-old son.

It was odd and unpleasant reading about the death of somebody she had known, but the thought of the two-year-old son upset her the most. Poor kid would never even remember his mother. For one split second, her sorrow over that eclipsed the sorrow she felt for herself.

She put the magazine down. She remained on her seat, her destroyed plans for her future still flashing through her brain, until her husband came to take her home. She sat in the passenger seat, oblivious to his attempts to comfort her.

"Rosie," Otto said gently. "It'll be fine. We'll get through this."

"Yeah," Rosie said. Somehow, his trying to cheer her up was making things worse. "It's just...oh god...I really _hoped_..."

"I know."

Rosie was not religious: she hadn't been to church for years. And yet as the car rumbled on, she thought about the things she had learned as a child, and half prayed and half cursed, if such a thing was even possible.

Otto passed her a tissue. "It'll be alright, Rosie," he whispered.

"I know," she said wretchedly. "I know it will be. It's just...Otto...this sounds so horrible, but...I've got no faith in God, anymore."   
 


	18. CINDERELLA part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of John and MJ's dialogue in this is from the official Spider-Man 2 novelisation by Peter David.

31st December 1971:

Around seven o' clock on the last day of 1971, Norman Osborn was dragged to the theatre by his elderly father, who had been demanding for weeks that his son learn to behave in a social manner. The play was _Cinderella_ , it was performed by students, and it was largely terrible. The only good thing about it was the girl playing Cinderella herself: she seemed by far the youngest in the cast, but she was incredibly pretty, and outacting her peers by a mile. By the time the second act started, she was the only thing Norman was watching at all.

His father poked him in the shoulder.

"You're watching that girl," he said. "When this is over, go and talk to her."

"Of course I'm watching her, she's the lead actress."

"You go backstage and find her afterwards. Ask her out to dinner."

Norman wanted to refuse, but after a few seconds he figured, why not? The girl was pretty, after all, and if he didn't like her he would never have to see her again afterwards. "Alright," he said. And after the play finished, to thin applause, he left the theatre and went backstage. No-one stopped him, they knew who he was.

He saw the girl by a mirror, taking off her makeup, and he approached her.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she answered. She gave him only the vaguest of glances; she didn't seem particularly happy.

"You were really good on stage," Norman said confidently. "I thought you were the best thing in the play."

"I was terrible," she answered flatly. She looked up at him. "Do I know you?"

"You might have seen me in the papers. My family gets mentioned there often."

A tiny little smile played on the girl's face, although Norman couldn't tell if it was amused or contemptious. "You all criminals?"

"No," Norman answered, somehow not feeling annoyed with her. "We're rich."

"That's nice," she answered, seemingly not particularly impressed.

"I came to ask you out to dinner," Norman added.

She stared at him, and dropped the tissue she was holding. "Oh," she said. She looked him up and down. "Well. Alright. Do you even know my name?"

"No."

"Then you didn't read the program you got," she answered effortlessly. She looked at herself in the mirror, and then seemed to make a decision- she stood up and offered her hand. "Emily David, actress."

"Norman Osborn, scientist," Norman answered in kind, shaking her hand. "By the way, apart from you, the play was awful. You need a better writer."

"Thanks," she said dryily. "How do you know I wasn't the writer?"

"A wild guess."

"You're lucky you guessed right. Although I am a writer as well, you know." She checked her reflection in the mirror.

"They should have let you write this play."

"Maybe, but they didn't." She started clearing things off her dressing table and into her bag. "So. Where and when do you intend to take me for dinner?"

"I haven't decided yet. Give me your phone number, and I'll phone and tell you."

She fished a piece of paper from her bag, wrote her number on it, folded it neatly and handed it to him. "It better be somewhere nice."

"It will be."

Neither of them could think of anything else to say. They looked at each other, and Norman realised to his surprise that he was almost nervous- not a feeling he usually experienced when asking a girl out.

"Well," he said. "See you soon."

*

25th February 2003:

Around midday on the 25th of February it rained harder than it had all year, and John Jameson- son of Jonah- left his broken-down car and hurried to the nearest cafe. He grabbed a seat, picked up a menu, and glanced around. It was not a pleasant place, and not the place anyone would expect to find the astronaut son of a nationally-reowned newspaper editor. It was packed with truckers, the windows were gungy, and his table was smeared with tomato sauce. And he was beginning to attract aggressive stares: this was not his kind of place.

He ordered a cup of coffee, and stared out of the window as the rain began to cease. He hoped the repair truck wouldn't be too long in coming: he didn't want to hang around. And the coffee was disgusting.

Turning away from the window, he noticed that one of the truckers was still staring at him- and he also noticed that an incredibly pretty redhead was standing at the trucker's table, attempting to take his order. He found he couldn't help looking at her: she looked exhausted. Beautful but exhausted. What was a girl like that doing in such a thoroughly awful job?

As she walked away the trucker pinched her backside, roared with laughter, and then promptly continued to stare at John. John came tremendously close to leaving his table, going to his, and asking what his problem was- but he wasn't the confrontional sort, and, ashamed though he was to admit it, the trucker was a hell of a lot bigger than him.

The pretty waitress came out again, carrying a plate of spaghetti and looking irritated. John made an attempt to catch her eye, but it didn't work. She marched past the trucker's table, the trucker pinched her again- and then she snapped. She whirled round, emptied the plate of spaghetti into his lap, and flung the plate to the table.

The trucker yelped, the cafe went silent, and John had to struggle to hold back laughter. The waitress remained rooted where she was, fury still on her face, and a small fat man came bursting out of the kitchen doors, a dirty spatula in his hand, heading straight for her.

"You did that on purpose!" he yelled.

"It slipped," the waitress said, in a deadpan voice which made John suddenly fall utterly in love with her.

"You apologize to the man right now," the fat man shrieked, his mouth only a few inches from her nose. "Do it! Or you're outta here."

"Don't do it," said a voice John only half-recognized as his own. He couldn't take his eyes off the girl now. "Don't apologize. He had it coming." He frantically searched for something else to say. "If you say you're sorry when you're really not, you'll only regret it," was the best he could come up with.

The girl stared at him.

"How'd you like a big piece of regret?" the trucker slurred. "This ain't your business."

John's mind went blank for a second, and then he remembered a trick his father had shown him once. _A way of avoiding trouble,_ his father had said, _assuming you can lie convincingly._ His father, being a newspaperman, could lie with the best of them, but John himself wasn't so good.

Neverless, he slid his pilot's license from his pocket. "Threatening an agent of the FBI is a federal offence, my friend," he said. He hoped he sounded confident: in truth he probably sounded like a moron. Still, worth a try.

But the trucker stepped back. "Yeahwellwhatever," he mumbled, making three words into one. "Forget the apology."

The girl snapped back into action. "And you can forget this, too." She pulled off her apron, threw it to the floor, and kicked it for good measure. "Take this job and _shove it_ , Enrique." She marched to the door without a backward glance, despite her boss shouting furiously after her, and vanished from view.

John wasn't about to let such an opportunity get away. He raced out of the door, slamming it behind him, and within seconds had caught up with her.

_Say hi! Go on, say hi and ask her out._

"You did the right thing," he somehow said instead. It came out in a deep and gravelly tone and made him sound like Yoda.

"Yeah, well, we'll see how right it is when I don't have any money for the rent," the girl said, talking fast and crossly. "Nice of you to jump in, though." She slowed down. "What were you doing in there? You're a lot classier than the guys we usually get."

John could see the tow truck making it's way down the road. "Actually, I was just killing time waiting for the Auto Club. My car battery died." He grinned at her, suddenly very nervous. "I can give you a lift as soon as the car's up and running..."

"That'd be great, actually," she said. She suddenly seemed a little shy as well. "So...being a Fed must pay pretty well, if you can afford such a nice car..."

John felt ridiciously proud of himself all of a sudden. "Oh lord, no, I'm not a Fed. I just asked him if he knew threatening a FBI agent was a federal offence. I never said I was one."

The girl gaped at him, and then burst into lovely clear laughter. "Then what did you flash at him?" she asked.

"My pilot's license."

"You're a pilot?"

"Occasionally. Actually," John said, trying not to sound pompous, "I'm an astronaut."

"Wow," the girl said, seemingly extremely impressed. "That's even cooler than being a Fed."

"I've always thought so," John said, feeling suddenly on top of the world. He held out a hand. "John Jameson."

"Mary Jane Watson," she said, and they shook hands.

*

26th February 2003:

Harry was standing on the balcony, out in the rain. His birthday present from Peter had finally come in the mail: a small miniture globe which lit up if you pushed the top down. It was pretty but utterly useless, and he'd thrown it in a drawer.

He wandered back inside again, past the mirror and his mother's picture, to his father's desk. He picked up the answering machine: he had recently developed an unhealthy obsession with it. He added this to his ever-growing list of unhealthy obsessions, and started playing the messages again.

" _Hey, Harry. Um. Sorry I wasn't at the party. Um. I am really sorry...I was sick, I could hardly get out of bed even though I really wanted to. I really wanted to come, I swear-"_

He turned it off again. He was fairly sure Peter hadn't really wanted to come. Heck, even afterwards he hadn't properly heard from him since then.

He put the answering machine away and went to lie on the sofa, even though he had work to do. Christine wasn't around, and he figured no-one else was either. He slept for about five minutes, then he got up, wandered to his bedroom, and as if moving automatically, crawled under the bed and lifted up the third floorboard from the wall. The one bit of shoddy workmanship in the whole house, and the one bit of the house that he actually felt was in any way his.

Inside was a dark green notebook, some pens and a chewed pencil- and inside the notebook was some writings, which he had never ever showed to anybody. He knew most of it was extremely bad- he had failed English twice after all- but it was all his, all his own work, and that was all that mattered.

He thought he might write a play. He'd written plays before- plays, poetry, scripts, the lot. He liked to mess around with words- he was sure his father wouldn't have approved, but if his father could mess about with dangerous chemicals and weaponry, then Harry could mess about with words. At least, that was what he had thought once. Things were somewhat different now.

He started writing randomly, but it wasn't working. He looked at the useless scrawls across the page, gave up, and put the book back where he had found it.

 _Once upon a time,_ he had written on the page, _there was a woman, and she had just done something terrible._

He would never pick the book up again.

*

The Daily Bugle, 25th February 2003:

THE HUMAN COST

Behind the headlines there are real people. It is something we so often forget. In the terrible chaos last year involving Spider-Man and the Green Goblin, the innocents caught up in the disaster were almost forgotten. Of the fifteen young children in the cable car on 29th November 2002, ten of them are now undergoing counselling. The young woman taken hostage has dropped out of the public eye entirely- clearly a sign that her near-death experience left her unwilling to interact with the outside world. And after that- what about the only child of Spider-Man's most high-profile victim, Norman Osborn? To this day he can express nothing but grief and anger whenever interviewed, and sources at Oscorp report that he drinks a great deal. And why shouldn't he? His mother, Emily Osborn, died when he was two years old, and after that, along came a spider...

When will the people of New York wake up to all this?

*

29th February 2003:

Rosie loved the view from the apartment. She could quite happily stand there and look out at the city all day, but there was work to do.

Otto came in. His goggles were round his neck and he was grinning like a madman. "Oh, it's going well, Rosie," he said to her. "It's going very well indeed."

"That's great, dear, but you ought to eat breakfast, you know." This was a conversation repeated almost every day, and neither of them ever tired of it. "You can't save the universe on an empty stomach."

"As you wish," he said, and took some cereal from a nearby cupboard. "You seem preoccupied, dear. Are you thinking of how best to join me in the saving-the-world scheme?"

She smiled. "You're doing well on your own, and I'm no scientist. I was thinking about college."

"The day we met?"

"That, and a few other things. There was something in the newspaper the other day that jolted my memory. Otto, do you remember a girl called Emily, who we both had a passing acquaintance with? I can't remember her last name-"

Otto thought. "Kinda pretty? Brown hair?"

"I think so, yes."

He shook his head. "I know she married -people were talking about it for ages. How lucky she was and all that. Didn't she used to work in a cafeteria before, or something?"

"You're right!"

"Yeah...that would be her then...I remember, she used to make a great meal of beans on toast, I'd eat there a lot while working- why'd you ask, though, Rosie?"

"I believe she's related to Harry- the young man you had a meeting with."

"Norman Osborn's son?" He frowned. "It could have been Osborn she married, now I think about it- didn't she die? Of a illness?"

"Yes, she did."

Otto clearly couldn't think of anything really to say to that. "It's a pity. Anyway, Rosie, I must be going- I'll see you later."

"I'll come to the lab at some point and give you a hand," she said. Otto had finished his breakfast, and came over to give her a kiss. "I'll bring you lunch, as well."

"That would be wonderful," he said. "I'll see you later."

*

1st March 2003:

Every time John walked MJ to her house to see her parents after one of their informal dates, she had to go past Peter's house. It was wearing on her. Even though she knew he had his own apartment and wasn't likely to be in there, she kept almost expecting him to run out and demand to know exactly what John was doing with her, didn't he know she was in love with _him_...

 _How utterly, utterly stupid_ , she thought wearily. _He'd never act like that in a million years. Not Peter._

It would go more like this: he'd come walking down the street towards them, and she'd recognize him from a distance. He'd walk right up to her, smiling, he'd say "Hi, Mary Jane," and then look questionably at John, and she'd say, "Hi, Peter, this is John, he's my..."

And she could think of nothing else.

"I've been thinking," John said.

She smiled. It was too close to being a fake smile for her comfort.

"About what?"

He took a deep breath. "I like you as a friend. I like you very much. I think you're one of the most incredible people I've ever met, and I haven't even known you that long, a few _weeks_...you're that good..."

She grinned, and meant it this time. "Ah, I see...you want something, John?"

"Be serious," he said, trying not to smile. "My friends are convinced we're dating...dating properly, I mean, not just going out as friends."

"And what does 'dating properly' consititute?" she asked, still grinning.

"MJ," he said seriously, "I think we...look, I know how cliche this sounds, but I can't think of a better way to put it...can we be more than friends?"

Mary Jane stopped looking at him, just for a minute, and looked at their surroundings. It was as she had feared: they were standing _exactly_ outside Peter's house.

"I..." She fixed her eyes determinedly on him. "I just don't know. I think I need some time. I just...remember what I told you, that I found someone who I thought I...could be with, and it turned out..."

"I know that must hurt," he said gently. "You can have all the time you want."

She really did love him then, but she wasn't sure if it was how she was _supposed_ to love him.

"Thanks," she said. He didn't kiss her then, he just let her walk to her door and wave goodbye to him.

She felt ever so guilty.

*

12th January 1972

Norman drove a car down to pick Emily up from her house, and when she came out, dressed in an attractive but very cheap black dress, she was embarrassed.

"This place is a dump," she muttered. "Not what you're used to."

"I like it," Norman answered, although he didn't really. He had barely dared leave his car for fear it would be stolen. "You look lovely."

"You mean that?" she said, adjusting her earrings.

"Yeah," he said, and he did. They drove on. "You'll fit right in."

"Good," she said, in a tone of voice that was impossible to read. "I'm not your type, am I?" she suddenly added.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm from the wrong side of town. And I know nothing about high society or anything like that, and you're probably regretting asking me out because I'll make a fool of myself."

"No you won't! You won't, all right?" He then said something he certainly hadn't expected to say: "If you don't like it, we can go somewhere else, all right?"

"Really?"

"I mean it."

"Well...good." Emily gave him a hard look, and then she sighed and stared out of the window. "Thank you."

"S'alright."

"Have me back before midnight," she said glumly, "or the car'll turn into a pumpkin, or something."

The streetlights ahead of them snapped on. They continued to speed down the road.

"I thought you were going to say, 'or I'll turn back into me'."

"What, like Cinderella? Huh. The princess was the real her, remember?"

Norman would later pinpoint that as the moment he fell in love with her. _The princess was the real her_ was a line that could have come straight out of the mouth of an Osborn. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you're right."

They looked at each other with sudden genuine affection.

It was the beginning of something exceedingly complicated.


	19. CINDERELLA part 2

A letter, 29th January 1972

Hey. I found out where you worked, and thought I'd slip this in your locker. I love the labs, by the way. Very technological. Do you want to go to dinner? If you're not busy making Frankenstein or something, I mean. I'll be outside on the steps at nine, kindly show yourself.

-Emily

*

10th April 2003:

On the 10th of April, MJ recieved a letter. She ripped it open not really caring, glanced at it, and gasped.

It was good news.

 _Fantastic_ news.

Who should she phone first? John? Peter? Her parents? Harry? She'd phone them all, of course, but...John or Peter, that was the question.

Eventually she figured Peter wouldn't be there anyway, and phoned John.

"Guess what!" she almost yelled down the phone. "A modelling agency offered me a _job_!"

*

A letter, 31th January 1972

Dear Emily,

Here's a note for your locker in return. I enjoyed dinner very much. Frankenstein is locked up in his cage for the night: shall we go bowling?

-Norman

*

15th April 2003:

John was sitting on the sofa reading a newspaper, and MJ was in her room getting changed into her bikini. She wanted to ask John how she looked in it- whether she geniunely had the right shape for a model- but then it occured to her that she would be giving off a rather mixed signal. So she put her jeans and t-shirt on again, and went to meet her friend.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he answered, with a grin. "You look good." He rushed on. "I hope you don't mind, but when I let myself in I found this in the lobby." He held up a parcel with her name and address scrawled across it. "Yours. Is it something from the modelling agency?"

MJ sat next to him, and took it. "Doesn't look like it." She opened it with her nails, and tipped the contents out into her hand- there was a note, and a necklace. A chain with a gold heart on the end. For one split second she thought and hoped it was from Peter, but then she read the note.

_Congratulations honey. happy birthday. -Dad_

"Hmmmmmmm," she said. She dangled the chain in the air.

"He got the date wrong," John said uncertainly.

"Maybe it just arrived early," MJ answered. She put the chain back in the box. "At least he remembered in the first place. At least he's making an effort." She put the box on the floor. "Wanna go out to lunch?"

"Sure."

As John got up, MJ glanced down at the box. She'd _really_ hoped it was Peter's present. She also hoped, very much, that he would show up for the party. That he hadn't- hell- that he hadn't decided he couldn't be bothered with her at all.

*

A letter, 5th February 1972

Suprise! Another note for you.

It's my brother's eighteenth birthday on the 9th and we're having a big family gathering. You'll get to meet all my relatives. Would you like to come over? There will be cake. Say yes?

-Emily

*

16th April 2003:

On the day of MJ's birthday, Peter turned up early in the morning and gave her her present. The party (and it was a _proper_ party- alcohol and all her old schoolfriends and everything) was taking place in the evening, and he told her he wasn't coming. After her intial flash of anger, she begged him to stay.

"Harry'll be there," she said. "You know, Peter...your best friend? Don't you want to see him?"

"Yeah, MJ, I just..."

"Have you fallen out with him?"

Peter shook his head. "I wish I could come, MJ, but I can't..."

MJ had to force herself not to frown at him. "Well, thanks for the present." She almost leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, but stopped herself. _Why_ wasn't he coming to her party? Was it because the old high school crowd- half of which had bullied Peter non-stop- were going to be there? That didn't seem like a good enough reason to her, but to _him_...

That seemed a good explanation. It would also explain why he never went to _any_ parties.

So she smiled at him. "I'll see you around, then, Peter."

"Yeah," he said, in a tone she read as guilty. He smiled at her, but she closed the door then. She took the present through to the sitting room.

One problem with her explanation: he didn't dare face the old crowd even for _her_? Wasn't that somewhat cowardly? She didn't at all like thinking of him as a coward, but...

She sighed and checked her guest list- she was not as a rule especially organized, but John was, and he had made the list. She found a pen and crossed Peter's name firmly off it.

*

The party was in full swing by ten 'o clock.

Flash Thompson and his girlfriend arrived second, after John did. MJ had had no qualms about inviting him: while she had never forgotten how he treated her, he _had_ improved considerably since high school. His IQ was now at the human level, having moved on from gorilla standards. "Hey, Flash. Hello, Liz."

"Hello, lovely." Flash took his jacket off and threw it onto the sofa, and MJ noticed he was wearing a badge. What was written on the badge struck her as pricelessly ironic, considering who else she had invited to the party.

"Uh, Flash? You know Harry Osborn's coming as well, right?"

"Oh, the richboy? Is he bringing cake?"

"Flash, d'ya read the papers?"

Flash shook his head, but Liz was clearly more well informed. "Flash, you're wearing a _Spider-Man Fan Club_ badge- and that's the guy who Harry thinks killed his father."

" _Killed his father_?" Flash repeated, in a tone that suggested he intended to have a heated debate with Harry when he got there. "Spidey would _never_ do that."

"Just take the badge off," MJ said firmly, "because I don't want a fight breaking out."

Flash took it off and put it in his pocket. "OK, fine," he said. "But Osborn must be _losing_ it. Can't he pay for a shrink?"

"Flash, how about you just don't talk to him at all?"

John came in from the kitchen.

"Oh." MJ said, glad for a change of subject. "Guys, this is John."

John shook hands with them. "I'm a friend of MJ's." he said. "D'ya want anything to drink?"

*

While Flash and Liz got down to some serious drinking, and other guests started to arrive, MJ opened some of the presents. John's was first.

"Oh _wow_ \- I wanted one of these!"

It was a silver bracelet with four charms: a kitten, a flower, a heart and a book with her initials on it.

"I love it, John! Thanks."

He took her wrist and carefully put the bracelet on. Then he looked in her eyes- this would be the perfect moment for a kiss, but-

" _Harry's here_!" Flash yelled from the other room. "Osborn! I want a word with you."

MJ hastily got up and went through the doors. Harry was standing there holding a present, and Flash had his hand clamped on his shoulder.

"Osborn, d'ya _really_ think-"

"Flash!" a voice yelled. But it wasn't MJ, or even John- it was actually Liz, sitting on the sofa with a drink in her hand. "Flash! Get back here."

"Osborn, lemme just say- you're wrong, man. Wrong in the head." Flash announced, and went back to his girlfriend. MJ let out a breath and went to Harry. He placed the present in her hands.

"What was that about?" he asked evenly. "Why does the resident caveman think I'm wrong in the head?"

"It's nothing- he just-" Honesty was the best policy. "He just read your Spider-Man articles and doesn't believe them-"

Harry shot a look in Flash's direction: it was such a murderous look it frightened her, and the fright didn't go away like it normally did. "I mean, he doesn't think Spider-Man is capable of murder."

"Maybe I should go over there and tell him what _I_ think, then?" Harry said angrily. He didn't wait for a reply, but started walking.

"Harry!" MJ grabbed him. "I agree with him, actually, on the Spider-Man thing- you've never wanted to beat _me_ to a pulp, have you?"

"Of course not," Harry said, caught off guard. "But he's a bastard anyway, MJ- you remember what he used to do to Peter?"

"Yeah..."

Harry glanced around the room. "Speaking of which...is Peter here? Is he gonna come at all?"

"No and no. Sorry, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "Well," he said. "Happy birthday, anyway. I'm gonna get a drink." He headed off for the drinks table.

"Harry, please stay away from Flash," she added. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed two things: John carrying an armful of her presents to the center of the room and, secondly, Liz staring straight at her and Harry with something like jealousy.

"Alright. I won't talk to him."

"And don't talk to Liz either," she whispered. "I think she likes you. That'll give Flash incentive to beat you up even if the other thing doesn't."

"Why the hell did you invite him, MJ?"

"Maybe it was a dumb idea."

"Hey, MJ!" John yelled. "Come over and open a present. You've got generous friends here." There was a slightly drunken roar from around the room.

MJ went to him and gradually opened a few presents, showing off to her small crowd with exaggerated faces and dry comments as she did so. They were the normal stuff like books and clothes- and then she spotted Peter's present.

Maybe she'd open that later.

*

A letter, 5th February 1972

Dear Emily,

Sorry, but I can't. Something has come up, and I need to stick around in the lab every night for, well, a long time. We're working on something big and I need to be there. I hope he has a nice birthday, though.

-Norman

*

16th April 2003:

She opened Peter's present towards the end of the party, when people were starting to leave. Flash went home at midnight, and Harry not long afterwards. MJ seriously hoped Harry wouldn't go after Flash and try something, although there wasn't an awful lot he could try seeing as Flash was twice his size at least. She was a little worried. Eventually she sneaked away from her remaining guests and phoned his house: the phone was answered by one of his servants who told her he'd gone to bed.

She opened the present then: it was the only one left after all. Her heart actually beat a little as she opened it- a silver box fell into her hand. She opened it.

Another bracelet. Almost the same as John's. She was vaguely disappointed, and displeased with herself for feeling that way.

She held it up to the light and took a look at it. Five charms dangled off it: heart, eye, spider, book, mask. The mask made her feel uneasy, like he'd put that in to tell her something. Tell her she was living behind a mask? Maybe...

Maybe not.

"Hey, you got another one," John said, coming to sit next to her. "Who's that from?"

"Oh, just an old friend." She slipped it into her pocket, shrugged, and grinned.

"They've started a dance competition in the other room," John said cheerfully. "D'ya want to dance?"

"Sure."

She let him grab her hand and dance her out of the room.


	20. CINDERELLA part 3

A letter, 19th February 1972

Where WERE you this afternoon? You could have told me. I hung around in the cold for ages.

-Em

*

18th April 2003:

Rosie was attempting to find a photograph of Emily. She didn't know why. It was one of the jobs she'd been meaning to do for ages, and had finally got around to. Give some orphaned kid a picture of his mom.

She left the boxes she'd been sorting through and went to her old desk- it seemed good a place to look as any. She took out the drawers, and found a pile of photographs in the bottom one. Ah.

She took them out and went through them. There was one of her...one of her and Otto...one of a bunch of their old schoolfriends...and another one...and there was Emily. She wasn't in the foreground- she was standing behind a smiling Rosie. And she didn't know the camera was on her- she was just staring off into the distance. But all the same, Harry would likely be pleased to have this. And she herself didn't really want it.

She held it carefully in her hand, found an envelope and put it in there. Then she put it in her handbag. She'd give it to him next time she saw him.

Then, despite herself, she took the photo out and looked at it carefully. It must have been taken before Emily had married Norman- that made sense. It looked like it was taken when they were both rehersing for the drama society's play, Cinderella- Emily had had the starring role. She'd done quite well, as far as Rosie remembered, despite the fact she herself had been pretty jealous of Emily winning the part.

Emily didn't look sad in the photo, really- just thoughtful. As if she was considering her future very carefully.

*

A letter, 19th February 1972

Sorry, Em. But you know I'm busy. I forgot. I'm sorry.

-Norman

*

19th April 2003

Every day MJ wore one of the two charm bracelets she'd got for her birthday. But- and she hated herself for it- she mostly just wore John's. Peter's wasn't as...pretty, and the mask creeped her out. It made her feel like a shallow little girl, but...well, there was also the fact that maybe John wouldn't like her wearing another man's birthday present. That was what she decided her explanation was.

Her most major worry at the moment, though, was a modelling show she had coming up. Clothes by a up-and-coming designer. She wouldn't have to just sit while they took pictures- she'd have to walk across a stage, smile sweetly, and not screw up. Some of the other models there would be professionals, people who'd been doing this since they were little...while she was just a pretty face.

 _Not you're not,_ she told herself irritably. _You'll be fine. How could you screw it up? It's easy. Just walk across the stage- back straight, head up- smile -make sure there's nothing stuck in your teeth- and make sure you don't fall over on your high heels._

If, indeed, she was to be wearing high heels. She might get the swimwear instead, or something. If there was to be any swimwear.

 _You_ are _shallow,_ she told herself crossly. _You have a roof over your head and money and a good job and good friends and a lovely...close friend who's a boy, and you're sitting there worrying about swimwear and high heels._

A police siren wailed outside, quite close to the house. She glanced out of the window, but only saw the car tearing past.

*

Light Up Broadway! magazine- Mary Jane Watson interview, November 2003:

Interviewer: Keeping ahold of your personal life- that shows a very mature attitude, young lady. I'm impressed.   
Watson: Thank you very much.   
Interviewer: So, what are your plans for the future?   
Watson: In truth, I don't know. I would really really like to act for the rest of my life, but...I don't know. I've always had this thing, I think, where I try to prove things to myself and just end up...screwing it all up. And I don't want it to happen again.

*

21st April 2003

On the day of the show John accompanied MJ to the venue. She wasn't wearing either charm bracelet- she was wearing an old set of gold ones her mother had given her for Christmas once. Her mother herself, though, was working and couldn't come. Her father was quite obviously not going to show up.

John went right into the dressing room with her.

"I'm so nervous," MJ declared. She was worried about her nervousness; how the hell would she ever be able to get on a stage and act if this was going to be what she always felt?

"You'll be fine," John said warmly. "You're the most beautiful girl here."

"Aww, John."

"No, seriously, I mean it..."

He suddenly leaned in to kiss her- it happened very quickly. Or rather, didn't happen, because MJ jerked her head away.

"Geez," she said. "That took me by surprise."

"Sorry," John murmured. "Sorry...that was dumb. Really dumb. Um...I'll go. Good luck, MJ..."

"I'm not mad," MJ said. "I don't..."

They looked at each other.

"I'll see you after the show," John said, and hastily walked out of the door. Then he popped back in again, before MJ could say a word, but all he said this time was, "I know you'll do fine, okay? More than fine."

MJ opened her mouth to speak, but he ran off, and she couldn't think of anything to say anyway.

*

A letter, 20th February 1972

Alright, alright, I forgive you. Although I do think we need to talk. There's lots of things that can't be said in notes.

-Em

*

27th April 2003:

It was the afternoon. MJ hadn't eaten. She was starving. But John was waiting in the car- maybe he'd take her to lunch. And then she felt guilty about thinking that, because John was _not_ some sort of meal ticket. He was just an adorably sweet guy, who she was not in love with.

"Mom, the doctor said you should take these pills," she said nervously, and pushed them across the table. Her mother pushed them back again.

"No. We've been through this. I'm not taking anything."

"You're not well."

"I'll be worse if I take those."

MJ didn't know what to do, so she leaned her head on the table and didn't look at her mother. "Please, Mom. Please, _please_ , please."

"You seen your father lately?"

MJ didn't lift her head. "No."

"Me neither."

The doorbell rang- it had to be John. MJ let him in. "She's not listening to me," she said with a sigh, and wandered down the hall. John followed.

And they all sat at the table and looked miserable.

"Mom, you need help," MJ finally said. "Of some sort."

"I do _not_ , MJ. I cleaned the whole house yesterday."

MJ tried pushing the box of pills across the table again; her mother didn't even react to them. She saw John had walked into the kitchen.

"I'm going to make you some lunch," he said calmly. MJ admired him a tremendous amount in that moment.

She and her mother sat at the table for at least ten minutes, exchanging nothing more than 'How's work?' 'It's good.' until John came out with some bacon sandwiches.

"Sorry it's not much."

"It's great. Thank you, John."

They ate.

And then they left.

"Mom," MJ begged. " _Please_. I hate seeing you sick."

"I'm not sick, MJ!"

MJ and John went to the car. MJ sat in the passenger seat, checked her make-up in the mirror...and burst into tears. She couldn't help it. She was just angry and frustrated, and it was stupid because when she cried she got angry with herself. For no reason whatsoever, her mind flashed back to the night on the Queensboro Bridge, and the moments she'd been sure she was going to die. And then suddenly to several years back, her father keeping her home and not letting her go to parties, go out with friends, her shouting at him _You're not my father I don't want you as my father..._

"What's the matter?" John asked anxiously. He put his arms around her. "MJ, what is it? MJ?"

"It's nothing," she said, rummaging desperately around for a tissue. "God, my _family_...my family's so _stupid_..." And then once more she felt guilty, because the universe was suddenly telling her _At least you HAVE a family._ She found a tissue and blew her nose, and hoped she wasn't about to drip snot all over John's car. She had no explanation as to why she suddenly felt so terrible _now._ Maybe it was because she now had a job and John and money and everything, and her mother had nothing, and it wasn't _fair_ and her mother was being so _stupid_ and her father was a _bastard_ leaving and...

"I'm sorry," she said, barely hearing herself.

"Oh, MJ, don't be."

John hugged her. "It's alright," he went on. "It's natural to be upset, anyone would be."

"I _don't want to cry_ ," she cried, in a horrible little-girl voice. "I hardly ever cry."

"It's okay...everything'll be okay..."

He leaned in to kiss her and all she really thought was _oh christ not now not right when I'm crying I'm all disgusting._ But he did. And she found she didn't care. And suddenly she wasn't thinking of anyone else.

_Why has this taken so long I really do love him-_


	21. CINDERELLA part 4

28th April 2003:

Harry was standing on a stage. He didn't like it. People were staring. They weren't saying a word or clapping or booing: they were just staring.

A production of _Cinderella_ appeared to be in full swing. A girl about his age, who might have been MJ, was speaking to the audience.

"I _shall_ go to the ball!" she said brightly.

Harry looked at her costume in fasination: it kept changing colour. It flashed from green to red to blue and then green again in the blink of an eye. He kept staring as she talked, then he realised it must look to the audience like he was staring at her backside, and looked away. He glanced around the stage and realised it was set up in the middle of Times Square. He had no clue why. Then he felt the stage shake, and thought there had been an explosion- but it was nothing. Just a figment of his imagination.

The girl playing Cinderella suddenly turned around and came towards him, and he realised it was his mother. Emily. Young Emily. He should have realised before- he felt stupid now.

"Norman," she said, "may I go to the ball?"

Harry froze. Everything froze. But the whole audience was waiting with baited breath.

"Um," he said.

"It is a simple choice, Norman. Can I or can I not?"

Harry took a step backwards, a step away. "I don't want you to go." he said.

" _Awwww_ ," the audience said as one.

"I _didn't_ want you to go-"

" _Awwww_."

"-and you shouldn't have gone-"

But Emily just frowned. "You know," she said in her normal voice, although Harry didn't know what her normal voice sounded like, "you're not even in costume-"

She threw the Green Goblin's costume at him, and turned back to the audience.

" _I shall go to the ball_!" she said viciously.

" _You shall go to the ball_!" the audience chanted back.

Emily raised her fists like some sort of warrior, and Harry watched in fasination. He thought he could see familiar faces in the audience: Peter and MJ were holding up a sparkly banner which said 'MURDERER', and letters in envelopes were falling in place of confetti.

"I want my fairy godmother," Emily said. "Where is she?"

Someone came out of the shadows and grabbed Harry.

*

When he woke up he was looking at Christine, and she was staring at him worriedly.

"You were having a nightmare," she said slowly. "You were muttering."

Harry tried to do a sarcastic response- _Oh really? I was having a nightmare? Never would have guessed, thank you-_ but he failed. He sat up. He realised Christine was holding his arm- she'd shaken him awake.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Christine said, and she walked out. Harry tried to call her back, but he didn't, and he couldn't go back to sleep either.

*

A letter, 27th February 1972

Well, I'm glad we had that talk. It resolved everything. Absolutely everything. I have never been happier in my life to have my boyfriend utterly ignore me.

-Em

*

29th April 2003

On the twenty-ninth of April, it poured down with rain. It was the unrelenting sort of rain, the sort you stared out of windows at and never dared go out in. Rosie heard it beat against the roof as she wandered down a white Oscorp corridor: she'd left a load of washing out in the rain, how stupid...

She turned a corner and saw Harry up ahead. Aha. She approached him slowly, just in case it wasn't really him, but it was. He didn't look like he was going anywhere, so she grabbed his arm-

He jumped a mile and spun around.

"Oh," he said. "Hello."

"Hello," she answered. "I was hoping to run into you- I've got you something."

She reached into the pocket of her coat, fished out the photo of her and Emily, and handed it to him. Harry took it and stared at it. The rain pounded against the skylight over them.

"I should really have told you before," Rosie said, wishing she had planned in advance what to say. "Me and your mother went to the same school. We weren't friends, but I knew her a bit. And I realised you must be her son. So I found you a picture of her."

There was a pause, a very long pause, while Harry examined the picture. "That's her?" he said, his voice shaking a bit. "In the background there?"

"I'm surprised you can't tell," she said. "You look just like her."

Silence.

"New York City isn't as big as it looks, huh?" Rosie said.

Harry shook his head. He seemed shocked. "Wow." he mumbled.

Rosie smiled. He sounded just like a little kid.

"So..." He held the photo carefully in his hand, apparently not sure what exactly to do with it.  "So...when was that picture taken? She doesn't look much older than I am now."

"She probably would have been in her twenties," Rosie answered. "She was a good actress, your mother. That was taken...it was the backyard of the theatre, I think. We did a play every year, and she always auditioned."

He didn't seem to be actually listening anymore, though. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you so much."

Rosie was slightly surprised, but pleasantly so. "You're welcome. And you get to keep it, of course."

"Thank you," he said again. Then his mobile phone rang, and, embarassed, he dove to answer it.

"I'll go," Rosie said, and walked away, smiling at him as she did so.

And people said he took after his father. Really. It just wasn't true.

*

When Harry got home, he found a frame for the picture and propped it up on his desk. It looked a bit out of place. He looked closely at the Emily in the photograph: she looked quite sad.

Was it before she'd gotten married? After? Hell, was she pregnant with him at that point?

Maybe he ought to ask Mrs Octavius- Rosie- at some point. If he ran into her again. He hoped he would run into her again: she might be able to tell him things. All about his father and his mother before things went hopelessly wrong...

And they had gone hopelessly wrong, hadn't they?

He took a pile of newpapers from the drawer. Sometimes he didn't know why he read the papers so obsessively: they hadn't been an awful lot of help so far. He supposed he was looking for patterns, for clues...

He found a pen and notebook among the debris on the desk. He was prepared to make notes while he read, but nothing came to him. He doodled instead, inking in the center of all the Os in the newspaper. Then the a's and the e's, the p's and the q's.

Once he'd poured over the newspapers enough to give him a headache, he glanced down at the notebook expecting to see SORRY or HELP written in dripping ink there. Something he would have done without noticing. But there was nothing.

He put the notebook aside and looked at the photograph once more. The girl looked back at him.

Her hair had braids in it, and she was wearing red earrings. Her t-shirt was yellow, and it looked like it had a slogan on it, but he couldn't see what it was.

That annoyed him. He would have really liked to see what was on her T-shirt, but he wasn't in the picture, so he couldn't just walk a little closer and have a look...

He turned back to the newspapers: one of Peter's photographs of Spider-Man was on the top. It was a very good picture...if Peter could get that close to him, then why the hell couldn't he bring a knife or a gun one day and just...

Almost without thinking, he reached across the desk, picked up the photo in it's frame and dropped it into the bottom drawer. She wouldn't want him to do any of this. She wouldn't like it at all.

*

A letter, 27th February 1972

Alright then- listen to me. I love you, Emily.

-Norman


	22. CINDERELLA part 5

4th July 2003:

Spider-Man did not like the fourth of July. Peter Parker quite liked it, or had at some point anyway, but not anymore. It was a bad night for accidents- fires, injuries, small explosions. It wasn't fun. Not anymore.

He hung about on the rooftop and watched the fireworks for a bit. Then he dropped down onto an alleyway just in time to save a teenage boy from the receiving end of a rocket.

*

John threw a small barbeque-party at his house. His mother turned up, although his father didn't, and MJ got to meet her at last.

"I think you have a _wonderful_ career ahead of you, darling," she said, taking a gulp of her drink. "You're naturally pretty, you see, and so many young girls aren't. I was on the modelling scene for a while myself- in my teenage years, of course- and I learnt that natural prettiness is the best thing you can have."

MJ nodded politely.

"So," Mrs Jameson continued, "when's the wedding?"

"Excuse me?"

"Me and my friends were talking, dear- has nothing been planned yet?"

"Um..."

"Oh, dear, I didn't mean to embarrass you." She finished her drink and placed the glass on the nearest table. "But when you're ready for it- believe me- you couldn't make a better choice. It would be a wonderful life, as a Jameson."

MJ nearly choked on her own drink. "Um," she said again, "Thank you."

Mrs Jameson smiled indulgently, and then spotted someone else across the room. "Oh my _dear_ ," she said, hurrying off. "My dear! You've lost so much weight!"

MJ stared after her, partly incredulous and partly confused. She glanced around the room. Someone tapped her on the shoulder then, and gave her a hug.

"Well," John said cheerfully, "that would be my mother."

She hugged him back. "She's very..."

"Strange, right? Is that what you were gonna say? She invites herself to every party around, even mine."

"Aw. She's alright."

"Was she talking about marriage?" John suddenly went serious. "She does that to everyone, you know, every girl I go out with. Don't worry about her."

"Why would I be _worried_ about marrying you?"

It dawned on both of them what she had just said.

"I mean," MJ said, trying again, "Um-"

John kissed her then, and the kiss lasted for at least a minute. When they broke apart, he grinned at her. "Well, that's good to know."

"Between you and me, I wouldn't tell your mom." She squeezed his arm.

Fireworks crashed outside.

*

Harry did nothing for the fourth of July: he simply couldn't be bothered. He stayed in and watched television. The news, mostly. He fell asleep on the sofa, and woke up to find a newsreader interviewing a teenager who had been saved from an exploding firework by Spider-Man. He watched for long enough to gather that the kids had been drunk and shooting rockets at the road anyway, and therefore were all complete idiots who didn't especially deserve to be saved.

He was somewhat ashamed of himself for thinking such things. Maybe it was the drink.

Then he went to sleep again.

*

Spider-Man was not the only person working on the fourth of July: Rosie and Otto Octavius also were. In the evening they went off to a fireworks display, though, and enjoyed themselves immensely.

J Jonah Jameson shouted orders at people all day, and didn't bother with any parties. He did phone up his son to apologize for not attending his (or coming to meet his girlfriend) but he didn't apologize all that much: he rarely did.

Robbie Robertson and Betty Brant went out for a drink together after work, swapped incriminating stories about their boss, and then wandered the streets for a while.

May Parker told off the neighbourhood kids for letting off fireworks too close to the house (explosions still made her nervous) and then went inside and worried about her bank account.

Ursula Ditkovich stayed in her bedroom and read a book. She pretended she wasn't as lonely as she obviously was, wrote a very bad poem in the back of her notebook, and scribbled it out again.

Liz Allen and Flash Thompson broke up, loudly and hilariously, at the fireworks display they went to. It ended in hotdogs being thrown, and gave the watching crowds much amusement.

Christine Steinhauer sent three emails, all to her absent son, and then stared glumly out of the window for what felt to her like hours. She refreshed her email inbox seventeen times in twenty minutes, and then she realised she was being obsessive and made herself stop.

One week after July 4, nobody's problems were solved.

*

10th July 2003:

Peter sat around in his old kitchen.

"How's your new job going?" May asked. "The one in the restaurant."

"Not bad," Peter said, although that was bordering on being a complete lie. "I mean...it pays the bills."

"Well, that's good. But it's not what you hoped for, is it?" She gave him a meaningful look.

"What d'ya mean?"

"Your ambitions- remember, Peter? You could do great things in the world of science. Surely you can find a better job than that place." It was a gentle rebuke, but Peter knew what she meant.

"I will, Aunt May. Soon as I finish, you know, studying to _be_ a scientist." He gave a little grin, and considered the fact that his career ambitions had pretty much slipped away. "I will."

"Good. A brain like yours shouldn't go to waste." She grinned, and got up to fetch the roast dinner she'd cooked. Peter felt guiltier than he had all week.

"What did you do for the fourth of July?" she asked, putting the plate down on the table.

"Oh. Um, not much. Watched the fireworks. That was about it."

*

11th July 2003:

"Your father called the other day," MJ's mother told her. "He said he wants to see you."

MJ rolled her eyes. "What did you say to him?"

"I said I'd ask you."

"Well, I say no."

"I thought you might."

There was a pause, during which MJ drummed her fingers on the table. "Where's he living now?" she asked.

"He says he's moved in with friends. I think he's with another woman, though." Madeline Watson put her hands over her mouth like a little girl, and then started to cry. MJ, who was getting used to this, fetched her a tissue.

"He's a bastard," she said firmly.

"But he's your father!" Madeline sniffed. "Your daddy."

"Oh, Mom. Don't. You _know_ what he's like."

Madeline sighed and stared glumly out of the window. "It feels like nothing I do turns out right. Apart from you. How are things going?"

"You mean the modelling? Yeah, good."

There was an awkward silence. MJ wished John was there.

"Do you still see Peter from next door?" Madeline asked.

MJ looked down. She should have guessed that question would come up. "Not...often. He's kinda busy."

"He likes you. As a friend, I mean- surely he could make time for you."

"Huh. Guess not." She got up then, and wandered through to the kitchen, and glanced out of the window. "Just gonna get a drink. Want one?"

"No thanks."

MJ took a glass from the cupboard, and just stood there for a second with it in her hand. "Yeah," she said, with a thread of sadness in her voice, "He doesn't have much free time."


	23. CINDERELLA part 6

12th July 2003:

Harry sat alone at the head of the dining table, eating his supper. No-one else was around- Christine was in the kitchen, washing dishes.

He wasn't particularly hungry. He picked at his food. Then he gave up, slid away from the table, and went through to the living room. He suddenly had a overwhelming urge to phone somebody, and to talk. He hadn't talked to any of his friends in what seemed like ages, and the idea that he was gradually losing them was buzzing through his head.

He went for the nearest phone, and dialled Peter's number. No-one answered. He put the phone down again, rather angrily, and then decided he was just being stupid and he'd call again later. Peter was just out, or at work or something. Not his fault. He tried calling MJ next.

"Hello?" someone said, rather groggily, on the other end of the phone.

"MJ, that you? It's me, Harry. How's it going?"

There was the sound of somebody shifting themselves about. "Hey there. Nice to hear from you and all, but it's ten pm, and I've gotta go to work tomorrow."

"Oh. I was just calling to say hi. Haven't spoken for a while."

MJ coughed, although that might have been to disguise a yawn. "Yeah...damn, you're right. How are things going with you?"

"Alright. Still rich." He gave an incredibly forced laugh. "What about you?"

"I'd say good. I'm going to be on the front of a catalogue sometime this month. Summerwear."

"I'll look out for it."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"We should meet up," MJ said, at almost the same time Harry said, "Shall we see each other sometime?" They both laughed, and the awkwardness was gone, at least temporarily.

"I'll take you to lunch," Harry said. "I'll pay."

"Nah, I'll pay for myself. But it sounds great. When?"

"Hmmm, my schedule's kinda busy...how about the 21st?"

"Oh...I would, but me and John are going to the theatre that day." She rushed on. "We're seeing each other now. You know..."

A million thoughts crashed through Harry's head: among them were the words _don't tell Peter_. "Oh," he said. "That's...nice." He paused for a second to think, and tried to work out what he felt. "I remember him from the party, he seemed quite cool."

"He is. Um, how about the 22nd, then?"

"Yeah, sure thing. Okay."

"Okay." She sounded almost nervous, as if she wished she hadn't told him what she had. "I'll see you then, Harry. G'night."

"Night."

She put the phone down first. Harry crumpled onto the couch.

He hadn't a clue what he'd say next time he saw Peter, if indeed he actually _did_ see him again. The man had dropped off the radar entirely, it seemed.

He picked the phone up again and dialed Peter's number once more. No-one there. He put it down and went to bed.

*

22nd July 2003:

MJ was as good as her word: she arrived at the restaurant 1:30 on the dot. Harry had phoned her again to arrange a time and place, having realised that stupidly he hadn't. The second conversation had been thankfully less awkward than the first. He was hoping that the third, too, wouldn't be awkward, or at least leave neither of them emotionally scarred.

"Hey, Harry."

MJ sat down opposite him. She looked perhaps a little nervous, but she seemed happy to see him. "How's it going?"

"Not bad." He didn't want to go into all the details. "How about you?"

"Pretty cool."

"You seen Peter around lately?"

She tensed a bit. "No, not really. Have you?"

"No."

There was a brief silence while MJ glanced at the menu. "This looks good," she said quietly. "Nice place."

Harry started a new subject. "So, this John guy. Where's that headed?"

MJ shook her head at him. "Male friends aren't supposed to be bothered about that stuff."

"Says who? And is that how you're gonna introduce me to people from now on? 'This is Harry, my Male Friend?'"

MJ grinned.

"How do you introduce Peter to people?"

The grin disappeared. "Oh, don't start."

"I'm just curious. I mean, you and him, you were all..."

"Please, Harry."

"All right, all right."

They ordered their food, and busied themselves talking about whatever they could find to fill the silence: sports, films, the upcoming presidental elections, the wallpaper in the restaurant. Their food arrived, and they ate.

"We haven't really talked since my birthday party, have we?" MJ said, after a few moments of silence.

"No," Harry said. "You still friends with Flash?"

"Well, I wouldn't even call us friends, you know. I see him sometimes at parties and things. And hey, Harry...have you seen Liz? Talked to her at all?"

"Oh." Harry thought about it for a moment. "No. And hey, she's with Flash anyway. And I'm not interested, really. She's not my type. Too airheaded."

"Awww, she's not that airheaded."

Harry took a drink. He was on his second. "Well. Anyway."

"You should get to know her," MJ carried on regardless. "I mean...I think it'd do you good, having someone else around."

Harry gave her a hard look. He thought about mentioning that he would appreciate her and Peter being around for a start, but he didn't say it. "I'm doing alright."

"Are you?" MJ looked significantly at Harry's wine glass, which was now empty. "I...look, I do worry about you, you know. You're always drinking. And there's the Spider-Man thing..."

Harry just froze at that. "I'm not gonna talk about it with you, okay, MJ? Not now."

"But you haven't _thought_ about it, Harry! Not properly. You..." She paused, thinking of the right way to phrase things. "You never saw him die."

"I know what happened," Harry said, sounding almost serene.

"How?"

"I just do."

MJ sighed. There really was no point in discussing this. She watched him order another drink.

*

The Girl In The Photograph by Harry Osborn

Fairytales are funny things. You know the phrase 'a fairytale ending'? Most real fairytale endings are horrific. The orphaned kid dies out in some alley somewhere, or the princess is sent away, or the king is thrown out and locked up. Hardly anybody actually gets a happy ending. If you want to stick to your ever-after ideas, you should probably beware of anything that opens with 'once upon a time'.

Once upon a time, there was a woman, and she had done something terrible...   
 


	24. ONLY HUMAN

21st February 2002:

Emma Marko awoke at midnight to the sound of someone sobbing. Such a thing hadn't happened to her since Penny had been five years old, so it was with a wary heart that she crossed the landing to her daughter's bedroom.

"Penny?" she whispered. "Sweetheart?"

No answer, just a sniffle. Emma pushed the door open and hurried to her daughter's bedside. Penny was sitting up in bed, tears dripping down her face.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I dreamt about Daddy," Penny sniffed. She wiped her nose with the corner of her blanket, something Emma had often told her off for. "He was..." She started crying again. Emma sat down next to her, nervous. Dreams about 'Daddy' could never be a good thing.

"What was it, Penny?"

"He had a gun," she sobbed.

"Really," Emma said, her heart sinking.

"He shot someone," Penny said. She stared up at her mother with desperate eyes. "Only once. That doesn't normally kill someone, does it, Mommy? Only once."

Emma sighed, and hugged her daughter tight. "No, sweetheart. Sometimes one shot won't kill you." She held her close for half a minute or so, before she finally loosened her grip. "You get some rest, Penny."

"Mommy?" Penny whispered.

"Yeah?"

"It felt like it was my fault."

Emma stared in horror, and shook her head viciously. "It wasn't! Oh, honey, how could it be?"

"Don't know," Penny said. She drew her blankets up around her. "Mommy, where is Daddy? Right now."

"I don't know, love. I never know."

"Can we call him?"

"No," Emma said. She closed her eyes for a second, and then forced them open again. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. No."

"Okay," Penny said uncertainly. "He didn't shoot anyone, right, Mommy? Not really."

 _Oh God, I wouldn't bet on it._ "No, sweetheart. He didn't."

"Good," Penny said, although still rather uncertainly. She buried herself under the blankets. "Mommy, is it time to take my pills now?"

"No, love. Not till morning."

"Good," she said. "Tell me the go-to-sleep rhyme, Mommy."

Emma smiled, a little. She still felt faintly worried. She took her daughter's hand, and waved it from side to side as she spoke. "See a Penny, pick it up, and all day long, you'll have good luck."

"Thank you, Mommy."

Emma kissed her forehead, switched off the bedroom light, and went downstairs again. She turned on the television, watched the news for almost two hours, until she finally saw the news she dreaded. Carjacking. Gun. They hadn't caught all the people involved yet, but she knew in the back of her mind.

Eventually she just sat on the sofa, her head in her hands. And then she finally went back upstairs, and sat down next to her daughter's bed.

"You sleep," she whispered. "He _did_ do it." She leaned against the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest. "Don't think about your daddy, sweetheart. He's half his way to being a monster, now. And he's staying far away from you. He's not capable of... _caring_ , or anything. Not that I had much in the first place, but...I've got no faith in him, anymore."   
 


	25. ONLY HUMAN part 1

21st February 2003:

Peter had been counting down in the back of his mind: seven hours ago on the same day last year he had witnessed his uncle bleeding to death on the street. And he now found humanity no less puzzling, and- oddly- no less cruel, than he previously had.

"He would be very proud of you, you know." May said

"I know," Peter answered. His mind felt cold and numb: it took him ages to find the thing he wanted to say. "He'd be proud of you, too."

"Yes," May answered with a heavy sigh. "Well. Get your coat, Peter, let's take a walk."

*

They wandered down the road.

"We're not...we're not going to the graveyard or anything," Peter said as they walked.

"No," she said softly. "Not today."

They went to an ice-cream palour on the corner of the street, and took seats in the corner. Peter glanced around. It was a nice little place. His mind hurt. Somehow, it being the one-year anniversary made everything seem more _real_ , and it had felt pretty damn real in the first place.

"I'll have chocolate," May said. "You, Peter?"

"Um, I'll have chocolate too,"

"Okay," She put the menu down. "So, Peter. How's college?"

"Same as always, really."

"I hope you're keeping up with it all."

"I...hope so too," He couldn't lie to her. "Had a little trouble, but..."

She shook her head. "Peter..."

He held his breath.

"Life hasn't been easy for you, has it? Your parents, your uncle...even people like Norman Osborn. I'm sorry, Peter."

"Aunt May, you've got nothing to be sorry for." He was beginning to feel a little angry now: not at her, of course, but at the world in general.

"Maybe...maybe not." She sighed. "Mary Jane tells me you didn't go to Harry's birthday party. Did you have a falling out?"

"No...no, of course not," Peter desperately hunted for a good excuse, and wished she hadn't sprung that on him so suddenly. "I just didn't feel well...didn't feel well at all...and when I phoned him to say I wasn't coming, no-one answered..." It was a terrible excuse, one of the worst he'd ever come up with- at the time, he had instead been in a shootout with a drug smuggler- but May seemed to decide not to press the issue. He sensed it took her a lot of effort.

"I need to see Harry soon, really, apologize to him..." he mumbled.

"You should, yes."

Peter changed the subject. "MJ phoned today, you know."

"Really, dear?"

"Yeah. She said she remembered what day it was, and she wanted to....say something, you know. Say sorry."

"A lovely girl, that one," May mused.

Peter smiled. First smile of the day.

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb:

The world has a tendency to react in strange ways to anything new that falls into its lap. The sudden rise of superhumans provided no exception.

The general concenus among scientists is that Spider-Man gained his powers in some 'natural' way: the scientific community does not believe in the supernatural. Even this has lead to divisions: religious men and women have claimed many outrageous things, (see appendix f) many of which I feel should not be dignified with debate. New developments in the world often lead to hysteria, and this was no exception- the day after the Goblin's first appearance at the World Unity Festival, a British tabloid ran the headline 'THE DEVIL WALKS AMONG US'. People have labeled Spider-Man as Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddist- every religion under the sun. Rumors abound of a small but blossoming Californian cult named 'The Spidermaniacs'. This of course would seem like madness to some, but to others, it is their way of dealing with waking up one morning to suddenly find humanity just that little bit more puzzling.

*

22nd February 2003:

The next day Peter captured the Goblin. He didn't mean to. He was, after all, in no hurry to repeat their last battle. He hadn't come out it too well, and the Goblin had, well, _vanished_. As good as vanished. He'd flown away, and Peter had fired webbing, caught the glider, but not him. He'd fallen into the city, and vanished. Gone into a house, maybe, or limped into a nearby alley. Peter didn't know, but he did know that he had come out of an excruciating battle with nothing to show for it but a free glider. He had considered putting the thing on Ebay, but had eventually done the polite thing and slid it through a window at the Oscorp labs.

So when he found the guy gliderless, masked and with his arm in plaster attempting to hold up a newsagent, he actually had to stop himself from laughing a little. Then he dived over to the top of the building, and whipped a webline down.

The Goblin looked glumly up at him through the holes in the mask, and reached for his gun, only to find it wasn't there anymore. Spider-Man held it out of reach.

"I'm not pleased with you," Spider-Man said. "You've been causing trouble."

The man didn't even say a word. Spider-Man reached down and plucked his mask off. An unremarkable, thin-faced gentleman looked out at him.  He didn't make a move.

"I'm a broken man," he said, gesturing uselessly. "Surely, you don't want..."

Spider-Man hastily webbed him to the floor, in case he tried anything. "Why did you do this?" he asked. "Any particular reason? Just out for fame and fortune?"

"What happened to my glider?"

"I gave it back."

"Fuck you."

Spider-Man rolled his eyes. "Any explanations, then, or shall we skip this?"

"You killed him, didn't you?" the man whispered. "The first one. Osborn."

Under the mask, Peter groaned heavily. "Right. How did you know that?" He didn't bother denying that he'd killed him, it wasn't as if this guy was going to listen. "How the hell did you know?"

"Fuck off. It's obvious. He died on the same night you fought the Goblin, and that chick he held hostage was dating his son, wasn't she? They were together at the World Unity Festival. You start digging, it all adds up."

Peter held his breath.

"But you. I don't know who you are. You've been covering your tracks pretty well."

Peter breathed again. A bit. "So. You haven't told anyone about that?"

"No."

"And you're completely and utterly nuts."

"Huh-"

Peter knocked him out, picked him up, and headed for the nearest police station.

*

Ursula Ditkovich's diary, 23rd February 2003:

We have a new man to stay now. He's a bit older than me, about 20 maybe. He's good looking, what Momma would probably have called 'cute'. Quiet though, like me. I like him.

I think he's called Peter, but I've never talked to him. He has the room across the hall from me and I looked in there: he's got almost nothing. Just books and photographs. I didn't go inside the room though. Didn't even knock and say welcome to the house or anything. He probably thinks I'm rude or stuck-up or something. If he notices me at all. He looks right through me, I think. Lots of people do.

He's not here often. Dad sometimes waits outside his room for hours to get the rent off him, but never sees him, although he's always there the next morning. Don't know how he does it. I should ask him though, I want to avoid my dad as well sometimes.

Momma might say man's got to have his secrets though.

*

23rd February 2003:

Peter was lying on his bed, exhausted. His leg hurt. He wished he'd gotten healing powers along with the rest of it. They would be useful beyond all reason. He couldn't sleep, though. Partly because he was still a bit jumpy, and partly because there was an argument raging on the other side of the wall.

_"Now stop crying like that- stop it, girl- if your mother could see you now she'd probably kill herself laughing..."_

_"Leave me alone! Please, just go away!"_

This all sounded familiar. He'd spent many an evening hearing the rows in the Watson household, figuring it would be better to ignore them but wishing, wishing _so much_ he had the guts to storm over there and tell MJ's father to leave her and her mother alone. He never had, obviously. That was one of his biggest regrets. Third or fourth biggest.

A door slammed somewhere in the building, and the yelling ceased. He groaned to himself. He wanted to go to sleep, but there were too many things buzzing for attention in his brain.

The phone rang, and it made him jump out of his skin. Dizzy and tired and his leg hurting like hell, he reached for it.

"Hello?" he said.

"Peter?" came Harry's voice on the other end. "Can we talk?"

Peter didn't feel up to breathing, let alone talking, but he forced himself to anyway. "Um, sure. Hi, Harry. What's up?"

"You seen the news?

"What news?" Peter asked. He suspected Harry would mention the Goblin, mention that he'd been caught, but what he said after that came as a surprise.

"Spider-Man caught the Goblin. Sent him to prison. And he killed himself in there, right after they locked him up. Drugs, they think."

Peter sank onto the bed. His mind went blank. "Oh."

"He knew what happened, Peter. He could've told me more."

"I thought he told you pretty much everything," Peter said with a sigh. He wanted to beat his head against the wall. The worst thing was...he was almost _glad_. One less person, now, who knew who Norman had been.

"Huh. I knew what I knew. He just confirmed it."

"Yeah," Peter said hopelessly.

Silence for a couple of seconds, then Harry said, "You want to come over tomorrow? I'm not having a great year."

*

24th February 2003:

The next morning he got up at eight 'o clock. He got dressed, and didn't put his costume on underneath this time. He raced out, wanting to get to Harry as soon as possible, and found Ursula Ditkovitch sitting on the stairs looking throughly miserable and close to tears.

"Sorry," she said, shifting aside to make room for him to go past. He hesitated.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah..." she said. "I just don't want to go back in there...my dad yelled at me..." She jerked her head towards the door of her sitting room. Then she turned away.

Peter could think of nothing to say, much to his frustration. Eventually he made do with, "Hang in there, okay?"

She looked up, surprised, and said, "Thank you."


	26. ONLY HUMAN part 2

24th February 2003:

Peter reached Harry's house at a quarter to nine. Harry opened the door for him. He was dressed, which was something, unless he'd just gone to sleep in yesterday's clothes.

"Hi, Harry..."

"Hey," he answered. He looked rather depressed. Only to be expected, really. He walked through to the sitting room and Peter followed him. They sat down on the sofas, opposite each other, and Harry said, "Wonder what MJ feels like right now."

"What?"

"The Goblin tried to kill her and now he's dead."

"Oh."

They wandered through the living room. Harry started talking again.

"He's ruined my life, the wallcrawler. He really has. I want to fucking kill him."

Peter groaned inwardly. He should have seen it coming.

"You been drinking again?"

"No."

"Harry, maybe you should see someone," Peter said. "You're...it's just...I'm starting to worry about you." It sounded useless and it wouldn't work, but at least he'd said something.

"I know what you're gonna say," Harry said. "MJ said exactly the same thing at my birthday party. About the drinking. You'd have known if you'd showed."

"Well," Peter said, but realised there was nothing he could say. It all seemed pointless all of a sudden. Even if Norman had never died- if he'd managed to cure himself, or had just plain decided not to play around with chemicals in the first place- where would Harry be now? Probably still doing with his life only exactly what his father wanted him to do, just like he was now.

It was then that he thought of something.

"Harry, stop drinking, alright? This is getting stupid," he began.

Harry shrugged, but he stopped moving- he was shifting towards the alcohol cabinet- and turned around.

"I can't help it," he whispered, and Peter figured that by _it_ he meant _everything_. "I just...I know what you must think of me. I don't know why you haven't run away already..."

Peter shook his head, got up, put his hand on Harry's shoulder and steered him away from the cupboard. "I'm not going to run away...and I want to ask you something," he said. He waited until Harry had sat down, and then he said, "Okay. What about your mother? What would she want you to do?"

Harry just stared in a baffled sort of way. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and then managed to say, "Peter. She died _ages_ and _ages_ ago."

"I know," Peter said. "But if she was still alive, what would she want you to do?"

Harry looked at him like he belonged in a mental home or jail, and said, "I don't know, do I? Because I've _never known her_. That would be like me asking you what your parents would do..."

Peter had to admit that was true, but he wasn't going to give up so easily. "She'd want you to be happy, I figure. And you're not happy. And, you know, no-one's murder is gonna make you happy either." He put slight emphasis on the word _murder_. Harry noticed.

"I...I don't think I'm ever going to know..." He ran a hand through his hair, and blinked. Blinked several times. Peter waited. Harry did nothing.

"Peter..." he finally said, but nothing after that, and Peter figured, weirdly enough, that that was a goodbye of some sort. Because how could it not be...this boy, this man, his best friend, was out to kill him. No...his best friend was out to kill _someone_ , which was just as bad. And he could do nothing to stop it.

Or maybe he could, and he wasn't.

*

When he got back to his apartment, he headed straight for the phone, and dialled MJ's number.

"Hey," she said, picking up. "Who is it?"

"It's me. Peter."

"Hi!" she said. She seemed geniunely pleased to hear him, although oddly...guarded, too, in a way. "What's up?"

"You've read the news, right?"

"Oh," she said. "That."

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

"I don't know," she answered. There was a pause, and then she said, "It just...seems a little off to me. The whole thing."

"What?"

"That man...Hamilton, was it?...I sort of get the feeling they're using him as a scapegoat or something."

"What makes you think that?" Peter asked, trying much too hard to keep his voice light.

"I don't know. It's just a feeling," she said with a sigh. "But, yeah, I am okay. I don't feel fantastic, but...yeah."

"Listen, you have to come over and see me sometime. Or I'll come see you."

"Okay. Awesome."

"I will, alright? I'll see you around."

"See you around," she answered.

"Bye, Mary Jane."

"Thanks for checking up on me," she said, just before she hung up.

*

Ursula Ditkovich's diary, 10th March 2003:

One day I want to tell a story. I don't know why. When I was younger I wanted to write historical fiction (is there a name for that? a historical fictioneer?), just because it sounded like fun, learning all the facts and then putting your own spin on them. Ursula Ditkovich's thoughts on history. I am not yet a historical fictioneer.

I don't know what will happen to me. I might get married, I suppose. If I meet the right guy. But it's just, kinda, living here with my dad and hearing him talk about my mom, it doesn't show marriage in the best light.

I haven't done anything today.

*

20th March 2003:

Ursula sometimes thought she lived in the little things. The _really_ little things. Flowers in vases, multicoloured inks in pens, the creaking of doors. Every night she listened to Peter's door creak open and closed, until one day it stopped. She would hear it creak open and hear Peter leave, and never hear him return again, yet the next day he would be back in his room.

This time, however, she had heard him walking up the stairs, heard the footsteps stop, and heard the noise of someone falling. She waited in her room, uncertain, and ventured out.

As she had suspected, it was Peter. He was lying on the stairs- she thought he was breathing, but he wasn't moving. She wasn't sure what to do. Maybe he'd fainted. She had no idea what to do when someone had fainted. So she crouched down next to him and shook his arm slightly.

"Hey, are you alright?" she whispered.

He jumped up like a shot, as if someone had just yelled his name. "What?" he asked dizzily...and then he saw that it was only her. "Wait...did I fall over? Here?"

She nodded.

"Damn. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry..." she said, but Peter had pulled himself up and limped towards his bedroom. He smiled at her as he went in, but that was it.

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb:

And the fact remains: why _shouldn't_ people elevate superheroes to the level of gods? They fit half of the critera, after all. They have powers beyond what we can achieve, they work in mysterious ways, and they have performed miracles; saved lives. All the good traits of a god, without the problem of proof.

Recently there was a car crash in Manhattan: the car sped out of control, hit a wall, and burst into flames. Tens of concerned onlookers rushed forward, but by the time they found the car, Spider-Man was already there, holding the car's youngest occupant- a three-year-old- in his hands. He handed the child to the nearest person and swung away- and then, from behind the burning car, the child's parents stood up, dazed and frightened but unhurt. Spider-Man had snagged them with his webbing and yanked them from the car just before it burst into flames.

One gets the feeling that a deity would have saved only the child...

*

10th April 2003:

Peter had woken up early- seven o' clock in the morning. He'd had a good night's sleep for once, and he had taken the opportunity to think things over. Not _every_ thing, just things.

Had it really only been a couple of months since the anniversary of his uncle's death? It didn't seem right. He did, after all, think about his uncle every single day, relentlessly- sometimes he thought it was on purpose that he rarely had time to think about other things. But of course that wasn't true.

He couldn't remember what day the funeral had been. Somewhere around this time, except a year ago. He had purposely tried to forget, and clearly it had worked.

Who had turned up to the funeral? He could just about remember that. MJ was there, she'd given him a hug and cried quite a bit. He'd gone to sit next to her. Harry had been there, pale-faced, telling Peter how sorry he was, how there were so many evil people in the world these days...

Even a few people from high school had come. Liz Allen and Flash Thompson...

He also remembered, a few weeks afterwards, he'd found himself really _hating_ Flash Thompson- if not for him and his stupid car, Peter wouldn't have wanted a car of his own and would never even have been in the wrestling arena that day. Of course, the rational part of his brain soon made him see sense- Flash may have been a bully, but he hadn't caused Uncle Ben's death any more than MJ had. All the same, it had hurt to see him and MJ together, really hurt, gnawed at him during the rare intervals where all the other things that gnawed at him (like they were doing now) had gone off for coffee or something...

He went back to sleep. Clearly, he needed it. But barely a minute later, he was woken up by the telephone. He leaned over and picked it up.

"Hello?" he said.

"Peter!" came MJ's happy voice. "You'll never believe this- I've been offered a job modelling!"

"You have?" he said, still tired. "MJ, that's great!"

"I know!" she said, hyper. "My god, I can't believe it. I never thought this would happen. I'm gonna phone my parents, too- I'll call later, okay? We ought to go somewhere."

"Definately," he said, while wishing she hadn't said that. She would call the house and he wouldn't be there, and he would have let her down again.

"Okay. See you later!"

She hung up. Peter said "Goodbye," into the empty phone, and hung up as well.

*

Peter waited for her to call for a good portion of the day: he did his homework while sitting on the bed. He figured it probably looked pathetic, a guy sitting waiting for a call from a girl, but he didn't care. He was almost relieved that that was the biggest thing on his mind.

Until the day began to move on- before he knew it, it was two o' clock. He'd finished all his homework, and now a familiar feeling was making itself felt: it wasn't quite guilt, but it was making him feel almost _sick_.

It felt horrible.

He went to the window. _How does everyone else do it,_ he thought, _hanging around all day and knowing that it's very likely someone will die within a matter of minutes in an incident that could've been prevented? If they were there, if they took down the guy with the gun or tried to stop the fight-_

He turned away from the window in irritation.

_Because they don't have enough power, you idiot- only you do._

He made up his mind: he'd wait ten more minutes for the phone to ring and then go out. He had a job to do...

...and now that he thought about it, wouldn't it actually do him some good to get a _real_ job? Considering that he was getting more and more broke every day.

He ought to raise enough money to buy a cell phone- that was a pretty good idea now he thought about it- not to mention impossible.

He counted down the minutes, one by one. He slid the chest containing his masks out from the cupboard. _If I miss her_ , he thought desperately, _I'll just tell her I was out looking for a job_.

Ten minutes passed. He went out. As he went out he took a glance at his calendar- the sixteenth was circled: _MJ's Birthday._

*

As he swooped down into town, he saw the blackened wreckage of the ice-cream palour May had taken him to. He would later discover, reading the newspaper, that it had been burned down by a bunch of arsonist kids- such a little thing to happen, but just one little thing that he hadn't prevented was normally enough to ruin his day.

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb:

This is of course a dangerous road to walk on. As many who speak on this subject have noted, we've entered a new age of humanity, but beyond all else we must remain human ourselves.

This depends, of course, on how one defines 'human', and whether one defines it as good or bad.


	27. ONLY HUMAN part 3

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb:

I have for many years read letters in the newspaper claiming they know Spider-Man's real identity. He's the man behind the counter in the TV repair shop, he's a train driver, a homeless man in the street, someone's son or even someone's daughter. Not all of the letters can be anywhere near the truth; and it's most likely that _none_ of them are near the truth. But reading the letters, it seems to me that everyone, somehow, _wants_ to know who he is, and wants him to belong, in a way, to them alone...

*

16th April 2003:

Peter went out shopping for a present on the morning of MJ's birthday, kicking himself for leaving it so late. It wasn't like he had many opportunities to shop, though. Hell, he didn't even have a proper job yet. He swore to himself that he wouldn't leave town without a present, not for _anything_ , and hit the shops.

He stopped at a clothes store, realised fashion had never been his forte (he patroled the streets in spandex, after all) and left again. He tried other shops, but he couldn't find a thing that really stood out. If he showed up with nothing, what on earth would she think of him?

Something popped into his head all of a sudden: supposing he gave her his present, and she said _thanks Peter- there's something I have to tell you- I have a boyfriend now._

_A boyfriend who isn't you- someone who's reliable and predictable. You used to be predictable, then you changed. Everything changed..._

He shook his head slightly and went back to the presents. MJ was about to hit the modelling scene, so there had to be _something..._

Make-up seemed too impersonal. So did earrings or shoes. Maybe he should get her a notebook, seeing as she'd given him one for his own birthday? But that seemed...uncreative.

Still, it was nice to have something _simple_ as his biggest problem, if only for the time being.

The other problem was that whatever he bought it couldn't be anything too expensive- he had very little money, after all. The thought of money was also what made him pick up an application form from most of the stores he went to. He didn't care how bad of a job it was- if it paid, he wanted it.

Finally he found something he thought seemed pretty good- a charm bracelet. They were currently a desired fashion item: you could pick out a chain of silver or gold, and then select specific charms to go on the chain- little metal kittens or dolphins or stars. He could just about afford a decent one.

He picked out the charms at the counter: a heart, a mask (to represent her acting ambition), an eye (it looked a little creepy, but that was the one charm no-one had used), a tiny little book (for an extra fee you could have initials engraved on the front of it, but he didn't have the money for that), and a spider.

He looked at the spider for a long time. Maybe he should take it off. It was designed to be a 'cute' spider, with big cartoony gold eyes, but maybe it was too obvious...or maybe not. It _would_ mean paying for one less charm if he took it off and left it...

"You happy with that, sir?" the girl behind the counter asked.

"Yeah," Peter said, giving up. "How much is it, please?"

The girl took it and counted the charms. "Thirty dollars."

Peter handed over the money, and the girl gave him the bracelet in a silver box. "For someone special?" she asked pleasantly.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Yeah, it is."

*

By that afternoon, he was feeling rather pleased with himself. He was back in costume, and observing the city from a roof- all seemed well- and in the evening he'd be able to go to the party and catch up with his friends. Perhaps things were finally going his way for once.

A scream from a nearby alley provided a rebuttal answer for that. Spider-Man actually rolled his eyes a little, and swung over to see what the problem was. He found a man lying unconcious in an alleyway. So he drizzled some water from a nearby puddle over him and waited for him to wake up.

When he did, he screamed and backed away, right against the wall as if trying to go through it.

"Chill," Spider-Man said. "What happened?"

The man didn't chill, but he did sink into a quivering heap on the floor. "You," he finally said, "You ain't gonna lock me up...?"

"No," Spider-Man said, figuring he could always go back on that later. "You're bleeding. What happened?"

"Fuck, man, you're gonna lock me up..."

"No I won't. Come on. Explanation?"

"Owe him money."

"What?"

"That man. He's ...my ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend." The man's hands were shaking. "He does drugs, you know, and other shit. My girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, she let me stay at their house, said he wouldn't mind." His voice rose to a wail. "Said I might have to give him a bit of money, you know, for the rent. And I _did_! But he won't stop. Given him hundreds of dollars and he won't stop."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. He beat me up," the man said, an unexpected edge of dry humour in his tone. "Just now."

"Then let's get you to hospital." Spider-Man said.

"Wait! You didn't hear what he said, did you? What he said just now, before he ran off."

"What?"

"Him and his buddies, they're coming back to get me, and my money. Ten 'o clock tonight, he said," He twisted his hands together nervously. "I've got nothing. Not a dollar left."

Spider-Man said nothing.

"They'll kill me. Or damn close to it."

"Ten o' clock?"

"Will you stop them?" The man's voice dropped to a whisper. "They're lower down than pond scum. Drug dealers and burglars. They need taken off the street..."

"Ten? They'll be be to get you at ten?"

"Yeah. Will you help me?"

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You've got to, haven't you? Else you'll have left someone behind to get beaten to death."

Peter, under the mask, sighed.

"Alright. You stay here and wait for me. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"To change my heroics schedule."

*

Ursula Ditkovich's Diary, 17th April 2003:

Peter came back very late at night, two am I think. Sounded exhausted. Just went in and collapsed on the bed.

I dunno where he's been. Probably just out partying with his friends. Can't see him at a nightclub, though. Although I can see him with friends. I sort of wish I was his friend. I think it'd do him good to have someone here, in this crappy little place. I think I sound like an idiot again.

*

The Daily Bugle, 17th April 2003:

HE STRIKES AGAIN: Authorities today found five men tied up with webbing outside a police station. Two of them were wanted criminals; none of them have of yet been named. Advice to the wallcrawler: this is a grotesque breach of human rights- we have the police for a reason. Enough is enough. We want an end to this revolting wilful ignorance of the law.


	28. ONLY HUMAN part 4

Daily Bugle website message boards, 23th April 2003:

What's this I hear about Jameson going on TV to talk about Spider-Man? Honestly, hasn't he bashed the poor guy enough?

*

24th April 2003:

Peter had finally had a bit of luck when it came to finding a proper job. He had had three interviews scheduled and had to miss only one: a robbery at a drugstore prevented him from going. It was on the 24th of April that he finally got the call he'd hoped for: just as he was about to leave- he had his mask on and everything- the phone rang.

He quickly took the mask off and answered it.

"Hello?"

"That Mr P. Parker?" came a spectacularly bored voice from the other end.

"Yeah."

"You've got the job. Monday, Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Report to us on Monday, we'll send you a letter before then."

"I've got the job? Wow, that's great!"

"Yeah," came the monotone. "Absolutely great, yeah. You'll have to pay for the uniform."

"How much will that be?"

The voice on the other end gave a deep sigh. "Ten dollars. Not much. Don't complain. See you Monday."

*

28th April 2003:

On Monday evening he wandered, fairly cheerfully, into Wally's Burger Bar. It was almost empty, painted entirely bright red, and was rather overwhelming. No sooner had he knocked on the door marked STAFF ROOM when someone came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.

"Mr Parker?" he asked, in that monotone voice Peter had heard on the phone.

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Welcome to Wally's Burger Bar," He didn't offer his hand, which made things a bit awkward. "I'm Wally. Your boss." He gestured at two bored-looking teens behind the counter. "Those are Fiona and Richard. Your co-workers. Hand over your ten dollars and you can get started."

Regretfully, since he could have used the money for food or whatnot, Peter handed over ten dollars. Wally counted it up, and opened the Staff Room door. The Staff Room was roughly the size of a cupboard. Wally plucked out a uniform.

"Put it on over your regular clothes," he said, and the whole restaurant watched with varying degrees of amusement as Peter did this.

Wally then retreated to behind the counter, and Peter followed him. He was given a very quick introduction to the machinery and the methods of cooking burgers, then handed a spatula.

"You now offically begin your work," Wally told him, but the restaurant was empty by then.

*

Ursula Ditkovich's diary, 29th April 2003:

Wandered through town, and bought a newspaper. It had an article about Spider-Man inside- a nasty one, though- and next to it was a picture, and underneath it said the picture had been taken by Peter Parker. That's my Peter...the one who lives next door, I mean. (not mine that's a stupid thing to say) He's a photographer. I never knew that. Cool.

Got thinking about the papers, too. They're always very angry about Spider-Man- almost hateful sometimes. I don't know why. He's just doing his job.

*

1st May 2003:

On the first day of May, Flash Thompson and Liz Allen happened to wander in to Wally's Burger Bar. Peter saw them walking past, and hoped they wouldn't come in, but they did.

"Hey!" Flash yelled, spotting Peter almost instantly. "Man! Should have expected I'd find you working some crap job like this."

Liz shushed him.

"Want a burger, you guys?" Peter asked neutrally.

"Yeah, alright," Flash said cheerfully. "Make me one with everything."

Peter nodded.

"Because I want to become a Buddist." Flash added. Liz almost dragged him to a table and sat him down.

"Coming right up," Peter said with forced cheerfulness. He turned his back on them and got to work. Because of the small number of customers the place got on any given day, he was the only one there apart from Wally. The others had gone home.

When Peter turned back around, burger in hand, Liz was standing there, under the pretense, so it appeared, of getting some straws.

"Are you still friends with Harry Osborn?" she said in a low voice.

Peter nodded, and handed her the burger. She took her time counting out her money.

"Is he...available?" she muttered.

"I don't know," Peter answered, truthfully. "If he's in a relationship, I don't know about it. So...yeah, I guess. He's available."

Liz placed her money in his hand. "Thanks," she said, and returned to her table. She handed the burger over to her boyfriend, who ate it with relish. He was looking slightly overweight these days: quite probably he wasn't much of an athlete any more.

Peter wondered whether he should inform Harry about this. Then he went back to work.

*

2nd May 2003:

Early in the morning, his costume on underneath his street clothes, Peter dialled Harry's phone number. It rang twelve times, and then he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey. It's me."

"Peter, for God's sake, it's nine o' clock in the morning."

"Oh. Sorry."

"God, I forgot how early you get up. What is it? I...haven't heard from you for a while, buddy."

"Yeah, I know," Peter said. "I'm sorry," he added, meaning it.

"So...what's up?"

"Well, you know Liz Allen? I mean, do you remember her?"

"Yeah. She was at MJ's party. The one you didn't go to."

Peter winced. "Um, just thought I'd mention...I gotta job in a burger bar, and she came in with Flash..."

"She's got no taste."

"Well...actually, she asked me about you. When Flash wasn't looking. She asked if you were 'available.'"

There was a second's silence. "Well...I know," Harry said. "She was at the party. MJ said she liked me, or something."

"Oh," Peter said, deflated.

"Why didn't you come to the party, Peter?" Harry asked.

"I...couldn't," Peter answered glumly. "I'll talk to you later, all right, Harry? I just thought you'd better know."

"Alright. See ya."

Peter hung up. Could have gone worse, he mused. At least this time there had been no talk of murder or revenge.

*

Peter spent the rest of the day doing his burger-flipping job, and he hated it. When he got out at five o' clock he had to go to Jameson and offer more photographs- he was still running desperately low on money, even with the job. The photographs were very bad, even Peter had to admit that, and Jameson had torn them up in front of him (Peter was just glad he didn't do anything worse, like empty his lunch over Peter's head or something). He had then told Peter to get his ass in gear else his job would be snapped up by someone else. On his way out of the building he'd run into Robbie, who had spilled coffee all over the starway. Peter helped him clean it up, made friendly conversation, and was into his costume and out on the streets within a few minutes. He flew past a balcony- some guy was there hanging out washing- and as soon as he saw Spider-Man he made a rude gesture.

It was a very little thing, really, but it depressed him.

As he went on through the city, he stopped for a bit on a deserted windowsill, and looked down over the street. He wished he wasn't always nervous when something bad wasn't happening; it couldn't be in the least bit healthy.

...In the distance, there was a billboard advertising a television programme. It had his face on it. That was slightly unusual.

He swung over and took a look.

_SPIDER-MAN'S FOREMOST CRITIC INTERVIEWED! J.JONAH JAMESON SPEAKS FOR THE CITY, 4TH MAY!_

He felt like kicking the board right over, and nearly did. Instead, he returned to his previous roof, and stared crossly down at the city.

_He gets to write articles denouncing me, gets to be on TV and 'speak for the city', and when do I get to defend myself? Never!_

He stayed on the roof for a bit, waiting until the anger passed, and then swung away again.

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb:

Spider-Man has had his detractors, of course. Some have had valid points to make, but others just spew nastiness. Although the last thing I want is to degenerate into petty name-calling, I do suspect that jealously motivates many of the critics. But, to be honest- I don't blame them. A man who can shoot webs, stick to walls, hold up cars? Who most people _know_ is one of the good guys? I would too be jealous.

On the 4th of May 2003 J. Jonah Jameson, editor of the _Daily Bugle_ and one of Spider-Man's biggest critics, gave an in-depth interview on the superhero and what he thought of him. Amongst all the pettiness, there were a few interesting points...

*

Ursula Ditkovich's diary, 3rd May 2003:

There's an interview with one of the Spidey-hating newspaper guys on tomorrow.

Might watch that one.


	29. ONLY HUMAN part 5

4th May 2003:

J. Jonah Jameson, relishing the fact that there were five cameras on him, cleared his throat and delivered the speech that he'd been writing in his head for days.

"You see," he addressed the nation, with more than a hint of glee in his voice, "people often ask me, time after time, why I don't trust the man. And to them, I say, why _do_ you? Whatever he is, he's still only human, and whoever heard of a human having that much power and no real name? We don't know a thing about him. We don't know why he does what he does, we don't know where he came from, we don't know what race or religion he is."

"And why," asked the interviewer, a rather frustrated woman called Sharona Prabhakar who didn't like being upstaged by someone whose hair looked like a dying hedgehog, "should that matter?"

Jonah was temporaily lost for words, although he quickly found them again. "Because only when we know who he is will we be able to trust him. What are his politics? Answer me this," he said, turning dramatically to the camera. "How do we know if he would he prevent a mosque, for example, or an abortion clinic from burning down? Would he discriminate, maybe, based on his views?"

"So far, he hasn't," the interviewer said.

"Do we know that for _certain_? Do we know for a fact that he'll save anybody? Regardless of his biases? Everyone has biases, and he must have them too."

"Well, it seems-"

"I'm telling you, this is far too much power to put into the hands of someone only human. What happens when he gets cocky, and decides we can't do without him? Do you people out there, all of you, really want to put your lives in the hands of a man whose face you've never seen?"

"Well," the interviewer began, but Jonah wasn't listening to her anymore.

"I'm telling you," he said to the cameras again. "No-one's that good. No-one. He's only human. As weak as the rest of us."

*

Peter watched until the interview was over. He was surprised to discover that he wasn't as angry as he'd expected, although he wasn't exactly on top of the world, either. He flicked the cheap TV in his bedroom off, and sat down on the bed.

He would think about it later.

*

That night he went out, costume on of course, plummeting off buildings whilst hiding under the mask. He almost enjoyed himself, for the first few minutes. He planned to get back by midnight, but by one 'o clock he was still busy- he was sitting on a building watching for car crashs or police sirens or any sign of trouble. Well, not 'busy' exactly- but he didn't want to go home. He liked the fresh air.

He liked the quiet moments, even though it was freezing cold where he was.

He was still watching intently- he was wary of the speeding cars and the loitering kids in one of the alleys- when all of a sudden he heard a scream. New York seemed to go quiet for half a second or two; the kids in the alleyway fled but no-one else seemed to have noticed.

Spider-Man scrambled down to the ground. Another scream. He followed the sound of the noise: over an abandoned block of shops, down an alleyway with a burnt out car inside- there was a body on the floor-

It was a young man with curly hair and for a split second Spider-Man was terrified that somehow it was Harry. But it wasn't- just one look at this guy and you could tell he was a drug addict. And he was lying in a pool of blood. He'd been stabbed.

"Hold on," Spider-Man said to him gently, and then considered his options. Out of all the things he had to do, situations like this were quite possibly the ones he hated the most. How long would it take for an ambulance to get here? Would it be safe to move the guy? If only he'd taken First Aid. If he phoned the police, should he do it as Peter or as Spider-Man? People would wonder what Peter was doing here, in this neighbourhood, a good boy like him...questions would be asked.

"Shit, man," the guy on the ground gurgled. " _Shit_..." He didn't seem to be particularly aware of his surroundings, and more blood was spreading across the ground. Spider-Man decided to carry him. He picked him up carefully- he was thin and light enough to be carried under one arm. That was a big plus.

The man burbled something, and tried to wipe the blood away from his lip.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Spider-Man told him. "I'm taking you to hospital."

The man said something that sounded a bit like _youdon'thaveto_.

"Of course I have to!"

He went on his way carefully, darting from building to building and trying not to jerk around too much. The hospital wasn't too far away, if he remembered this part of town correctly. He glanced down and saw the man's eyes were closed- but he wasn't dead, Peter could feel him breathing. He was reminded then of the only time he had carried a dead body through the streets of New York.

*

He marched straight into the lobby- people stepped back in surprise and made way for him. That felt rather good. A couple of doctors, and the woman behind the counter, ran forward anxiously.

"I found him in an alleyway," Spider-Man said, as someone in the background called for a stretcher. "He'd been stabbed. I think."

There was a general commotion- the man was taken by two other people, and Spider-Man felt an hand on his arm. "If you'd stay here, sir, we've been waiting for the opportunity to question you-"

"No," Spider-Man said.

"Sir..."

Spider-Man backed away.

"Leave him alone, Oliver!" came a female voice. It was a random nurse, a pretty black girl with long black hair. "Just let him go."

Spider-Man took the opportunity to dart to the window. He jumped out of it and ended up in a tree. People dashed to the window, and he hid in the leaves. He waited there for a few minutes, and then scrambled out. He landed easily on the ground and went round to the front of the hospital, via the roof.

He wondered if there was any way of finding out about the stabbing victim- whether he was going to be alright or not. He glanced through a couple of skylights, but didn't see anything. He hadn't really expected to see anything, in all honesty. He'd just have to look in the paper tomorrow to find out if the guy had lived.

Eventually he dropped back down to the ground, in a secluded area- a sort of hospital garden- and wondered if he ought to go home now. He wasn't all that tired, but he figured he would be soon.

Suddenly, a door behind him burst open, and he spun around. But it was nobody dangerous, as it turned out. It was the girl- the girl who'd said to let him go. She looked mostly very surprised.

"They sent a bunch of us to look for you! I didn't think you were still here. That man you brought in, he's a drug dealer, they've been after him for ages."

Spider-Man suddenly did feel very tired.

"Why are they looking for me?" he said giddily.

"I don't know. They might want to arrest you, but they didn't say so. You're better off going, I think. I'll say I never found you. It's not like they'll assume I'm lying."

Spider-Man nodded. "The man, is he all right?" It was all he could think of at the moment- the man who looked like Harry.

"I...think so. He was in pretty bad shape. The doctors think he was stabbed with a bottle."

"Oh." Spider-Man wondered why he'd been stabbed in the first place. The most obvious explanation was that he owed someone money, but heck, he'd never find out. There were countless stories he'd had a part in yet never known the ending to.

"Not many people would have done that," the girl said to him uncertainly. "Brought in someone they'd just found in an alleyway, a drug dealer...they'd have been too scared to. Mask or not. You're different."

Spider-Man was suddenly and inexplicably worried that she was going to rip the mask off. He shifted away, just a little.

"Who are you?" the girl asked. "Who are you really? I swear not to tell anyone. I just want to know."

Spider-Man shook his head. "Nobody knows," he said. " _Nobody_."

"Alright," the girl said, disappointed. But she didn't leave. "Um. They were talking about you on TV this afternoon."

"I know. I watched."

"It's just..." the girl said. Her struggle for the right words was obvious. "You _will_ save anyone, won't you? I mean, if they're in danger. You'll save anyone no matter who or what they are?"

Spider-Man looked at her. He didn't even know this girl's name, and yet she was speaking to him like he was something untouchable, something more than human, even. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

So he put his hand on her shoulder, just for one second. "I think you know the answer to that," he said, and took off into the sky. Then he dropped back down again. "Sorry for the cheesiness. Had to be said." Then he vanished into the trees, and swung away into the night.

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D. Webb:

J. Jonah Jameson did say one other thing which I think deserves some thought: _"Do you people out there, all of you, really want to put your lives in the hands of a man whose face you've never seen?"_ He could have been talking about religion. He was not, but back in 2003 it must have indeed seemed that a whole city, and a good percentage of the outside world, had put their lives in the hands of a man whose face they've never seen.

It was a whole new era. And things grew steadily more complicated.

Now, reader, onto more recent events...


	30. THE SECOND AFTERMATH

May 19th 2004:

A few hours after the aborted wedding, a family conference was held in the Jameson house. It dissolved, within a matter of minutes, to John and his mother and father all screaming at each other.

"We bill that girl for the wedding!" Jonah Jameson shouted. "Her and her new man. We bleed every damn dollar out of them."

"Dad-"

"Or her parents. We get hold of them. Who are they, John? Have I met them?"

"No. And _no_." John said fiercely. "Neither of them have money, and MJ doesn't either, and face it, Dad, demanding things from her isn't going to do any good."

"I agree with him," John's mother snapped. "You listen up, Jonah. Or is it always just about the money to you?"

"Yeah? Who was it who ordered a truckload of flowers? And three new dresses? And _caviar_?"

"Look, we can argue later," John said in exasperation, displaying the abilities that had made him captain of a space shuttle. "Right now, we just have to consider what to _do_. I've been trying to contact MJ, but she won't reply-"

"Course she won't! What did you expect from someone who'd pull a stunt like that?"

"Shut up, Dad. As I was saying, she won't answer her phone or anything. I'm gonna try going through her parents, I think. I just want to talk to her." All the energy suddenly seemed to go out of him, at that. "Just talk," he said with a sigh, and sunk down on one of the sofas. His parents glanced at each other. For the first time in at least a decade, they were apparently thinking the exact same thing.

"Are you alright, John?" Jonah asked gruffly.

"Not really."

His mother went to the wine cabinet, filled a glass, and sat down on the sofa next to him. "Here," she said, and handed the glass over. John drank the whole thing. "Thanks," he mumbled. "I'm fine. Really. I will be."

"Have you given any thought as to what you'll do if she comes back?" Jonah boomed. "If she comes back begging you to take her back and share your wealth?"

"What your father means," John's mother said icily, "is, would you forgive her."

"Yes."

"And, would you take her back? Would you marry her?"

"No," John said firmly. "No. I've got no faith in her anymore."   
 


	31. THE SECOND AFTERMATH part 1

The New York Times, Interview with the Train Passengers, June 2004:

"Give the man the key to the city."

Jonas Staton, aged 35, is doing something not unusual: he is standing with his two children staring proudly up at a billboard of Spider-Man. But for this family there is a big difference: if not for the interventions of the web-slinger, Staton wouldn't be standing with his family at all. Only last month, he was on a runaway train- the multi-armed madman Doc Ock had tampered with the controls- and would have suffered certain death, along with hundreds of other passengers, if Spider-Man had not saved them.

"Give the man the key to the city," Staton repeats, almost dreamily. "And a big fat cheque to go with it. Man's probably too decent to spend it, but what can you do?"

He is not the only one with such sentiments. Eleanor Gleeson, 24, a young mother who, terrifyingly, had her baby with her on the train as it was racing out of control, has exactly the same thoughts. "He deserves something for what he's done," she says firmly. "I wish I could track him down, you know, and thank him in person."

It is hard to describe the atmosphere between the seven train survivors gathered together for their interviews. Between them, they've got most of the races and religions under the sun covered, but they speak as through they are a family. Which in some ways they are: they were bonded together purely by fate. As you hear about survivors of terrorist attacks coming together to form support groups, so have these people- the difference being that in this case _all_ were survivors.

"People have said it's stupid to dwell on an incident where no-one was actually killed," said Hugo Spiers, 58. "But I disagree. It's the sort of thing people _should_ dwell on. I saw the best side of humanity that day." Eleanor, meanwhile, has even greater reasons for wanting to remember. "I thought my baby was going to die along with the rest of us," she says quietly. "Can you _imagine_ feeling that? And he would have died, too, we all would, if not for Spider-Man."

*

May 19th 2004:

When Peter came back in, MJ was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, looking thoughtful.

"Hey," he said gently.

"Hey," she answered. A pause. "They're gonna be looking for me right now. John's parents are probably gonna be out for my blood." Peter suddenly realised that she was holding her cell phone in her hand. "He called," she said helplessly. "John did. I didn't answer."

Peter didn't know what to say.

"He probably hates me right now."

"No. He won't."

Another pause.

"So, what happened?"

"Oh. There was an attempted breakout at the prison. But they'd actually pretty much dealt with it by the time I got there."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

MJ put her cell phone down on the floor, in a decisive sort of manner. "Well," she said. She started taking the hairpins out of her hair. "I guess you'd better help me get this dress off."

So he did.

*

Ursula Ditkovich's Diary, 20th May 2004:

It's 5am in the morning. I can't sleep. I've been watching the news again. There's been more crazy stuff going on, you see. There was another one of those big battles, and another hostage, and another rescue. I can't go into too much detail cos I don't know much detail. But the Villain Of The Piece this time was called Doctor Octopus, but his real name, apparently, was Dr Otto Octavius. It's been confirmed on TV. They pulled his body out of the river. Still had the arms attached. Used to be a great scientist, so they say.

He showed up before, as well. He's been in the papers for weeks. But I haven't written about it. I haven't really written about very much. I've been kinda low. I just haven't _done_ anything. I know Peter's been kinda low too, you could tell just by looking at him, so I brought him cake. I don't know if it helped him any. I hope it did.

So, yeah. I wonder if we can start to expect something like this once a year, or something. I'm still just watching and reading the news. I'm not actually _there_. It could've been something I invented in my head for how real it seems, you know? Sort of.

Also, Peter has a girl in his room.

I wish something would happen to snap me out of this.

*

20th May 2004:

Harry knocked on Peter's door.

"Peter. Let me in."

But no-one answered. He shoved it, hard, and felt the bomb he'd put in his backpack rattle around. " _Open_."

"The door gets stuck," said a voice from behind him.

He turned around and saw a thin blonde girl standing there. "Open it for me, then," he said curtly.

She gave him a look somewhere between intimidation and anger, if such a thing was even possible, walked over, and tried the door.

"It's locked," she said. "He must be out."

"When will he be back?" Harry demanded.

"I don't know," she answered. She looked him up and down, quite possibly taking in the fact that he looked tired, drunk and dishevelled. "W-what do you want with him?" she asked nervously.

 _I have no idea._ "Just to talk to him."

"Oh." She backed away from the door. "Are you a friend of his?"

Harry said nothing. The girl looked at him hopefully, and then realised she wasn't going to get an answer, and her expression slowly changed to one of relative concern. "Um. If you're waiting, do you want some cake?"

"What?"

"Some cake. While you wait for Peter to come back."

" _What_?"

"Do you?"

He stared at her in utter befuddlement. "What, you offer food to everyone who walks in the building?"

She almost shrank before his eyes. "I. Um. I just have cake."

 _And I have a bomb and two knives._ "Right. Well. Okay." He could think of nothing better to say, and he _was_ hungry, and it felt like his brain was about to break. "Let's have cake. Bring it on." He clapped his hands wildly, and the girl scurried off, frightened. Five seconds later and she returned, with a plate of chocolate cake.

"I made it myself. Today."

"Good. You make cakes often?" he said, his voice light and crazy. He stuffed a whole slice into his mouth.

"Yes. I cook," she said nervously. She was attempting to put some distance between them.

"Good. Everyone needs a hobby." He reached for another slice. "What's your name?"

"U-U-Ursula."

"Nice name, Ursula. You know Peter, then?"

"Yes. He lives next door," she said.

"Lucky you."

"You know, I'm not sure Peter's coming back," Ursula said, her voice almost shaking now. "He. Um. He might be busy."

"Really."

"Yes," she said. "Keep the cake," she added, and scrambled back to her own door.

"Don't tell him I was here," Harry said loudly, just before she closed it.

*

21st May 2004:

Peter opened the door the next morning, after being woken up by the sound of someone trying to open it, to find Ursula. As soon as she saw him, she blushed and stepped back again.

"Sorry. I should have knocked. Again."

"Doesn't matter," Peter said. Behind him, on the bed, MJ pulled the covers back and looked around, and Ursula turned bright red.

"Um, I'll come back later."

"No, it's fine," Peter said quickly. "What's up?"

"Someone came by yesterday," Ursula said, barely meeting his eyes. "I would have told you earlier, but you didn't get back until late..."

"Who was it?" Peter asked, although he thought he could guess. "Did you get his name?"

"No," Ursula said, looking at the ground. "But he, um, he had curly hair...and he seemed a bit...angry."

"I see," Peter said glumly.

"I offered him cake," Ursula added.

Peter stared at her. Then, despite the worry he was feeling, he grinned. "Ursula?" he said. "You...just keep with the cakes, okay? They're good stuff." He was sure he hadn't properly articulated what he wanted to say, but Ursula blushed even redder, if that was possible, whispered a thank you and ran away.

MJ was barely awake. "Who was that?" she said. "What'd she want?"

"Nothing," Peter answered. He paused, barely even recognizing that he'd made a decision in that moment, and then spoke again. "She's the landlord's daughter. Lives across the hall."

"Oh," MJ answered, and went to sleep again.

*

An email, 22nd May 2004

<john_j@buglemail.com> to <singsong123@hotmail.com>

MJ, I know you're avoiding me, and I guess I can see why. But this isn't good for either of us and it's really hurting me. Please write back, or phone me, or come see me. Please. I need to see you. I really do.

-John


	32. THE SECOND AFTERMATH part 2

28th May 2004:

It took a very short time for Peter and MJ to settle into a routine. They would come and go from the other's flat every day, MJ would go to rehearsals in the evenings, and Peter would work his schedule around that. It went okay. He still occasionally had to fight off guilt from both sides- guilt that he wasn't out saving people all the time, and guilt that he wasn't with MJ all the time. But it worked. Pretty much.

About a week into things, he walked into her flat to see her staring at the phone, a tissue in her hands, crying a little. He raced over to her.

"MJ, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said hastily. She wiped her eyes, and plastered an obviously forced smile on her face. "I didn't hear you come in."

"MJ, you were crying."

She sighed, and tried to throw her tissue into the waste-paper bin opposite her. She missed. "It was just...my dad."

"Oh."

"On the phone. He rang me and said John had been calling and calling," she said, looking at the ground. "And he said...my dad said...he said he'd made a stupid mistake, and I should go back to John, and _beg_ him." She sniffed loudly. "Beg him to take me back and marry me."

"Oh, MJ." He hugged her, and something occured to him. " _He'd_ made a stupid mistake?"

"He let me run away," MJ said quietly. "On that day. Both of my parents told me to go, if it would make me happy. My mom _and_ my dad. Guess he changed his mind."

"He does want you happy, MJ." Peter said helplessly. "He just...goes about it wrong."

"He doesn't want me happy. He wants me married off and rich, so I can lend him money." MJ said bitterly. "S'always been like this. Since I started dating."

Peter held her silently. For half a minute, at least. "Er, did he tell you what John had to say?" he finally said, in a very low voice.

"No," MJ murmured. There was five seconds or so of something big hanging in the air, and then MJ rushed on. "Peter, I was...I mean...I _did_ love him. Not like I love you, not like that at all, but...I _did_."

Silence.

"O-of course," Peter mumbled. "That's why you agreed to marry him."

"I don't want to hurt him anymore, Peter," MJ said miserably, "but I don't know what to do."

More silence. MJ shifted about uncomfortably. "Peter...I'm sorry. But you needed to know the truth."

Peter said nothing. _Sometimes you don't need to know the truth. If I told you everything I know, about Harry for example, it'd put you in danger. You don't need to know, you don't need to know..._ He repeated those five words like a mantra round his brain.

"Thanks," he said.

"I should write to him," MJ said glumly. "but I can't. I don't know what to say."

"That you're sorry?" Peter tried.

"It doesn't seem like enough. I was going to _marry_ him."

Peter put his arms around her again. "It'll be enough. 'Cos...you mean it, don't you? That's all that matters."

"Yeah." MJ said.

*

An email, 29th May 2004:

<john_j@buglemail.com> to <singsong123@hotmail.com>

MJ, I heard that you're singing in _Manhattan Memories_ on Broadway soon. If I come see you there, will you talk to me? Please?

-John

*

May 30th, 2004:

As the days hurried on, MJ found herself having a brief conversation with Ursula, the landlord's daughter. She was the shyest girl MJ had ever met, but endearing, and MJ liked her instantly, although she did consider at the back of her mind that the kid should eat more.

She came across her when walking upstairs. Ursula was on the landing, peeking out of her bedroom.

"Hi!" she said, on seeing MJ. She came forward. "Hi," she said again, quieter this time. "I'm Ursula."

"Hi, Ursula," MJ said. "I'm Mary Jane. Well, MJ," She stuck out her hand, which Ursula shook. "Peter mentioned you."

"Really?" Ursula said, smiling widely. That was the moment MJ took to her. "Wow," she went on. "Um, I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I've seen you in papers, and things."

"Yeah. I'm an actress."

"Cool!"

The conversation having reached it's natural end, Ursula retreated, and MJ did likewise. "See ya," she said cheerfully.

"See ya," Ursula said shyly.

MJ went to Peter's room to wait for him. After two minutes or so had passed, suddenly _I've seen you in papers_ popped into her head. Her picture had been in the papers once, after all, after the Bridge Incident. And this time around...John's father knew she had been kidnapped, knew who'd she'd been kidnapped _by_ , and owned a newspaper. _Oh god._ People would start to have suspicions. If her name was printed, they'd start hounding her for interviews, asking her if she knew who Spider-Man was. Maybe making the connection between the man she was with and the man who'd saved her life.

She sank onto the bed.

*

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D Webb:

There is one role in this that has not often been discussed, and that is that of Mary Jane Watson. She is a working Broadway actress- and she was present at the climatic Sandman battle, and observers noted that Spider-Man seemed to definitely have some sort of familiarity with her. The papers never offically named who it was taken hostage by Doctor Octopus (and details of that incident remain sketchy to this day); nor did they release details of the woman thrown off the bridge by the Green Goblin- although I imagine they would have liked to- but they did release a few pictures. The woman in the pictures certainly _looks_ like Watson, but it may very well not be her. New York is a big city: there is more than one redheaded young woman in town, after all.

I would like to issue a friendly warning to anyone in the journalism business who reads this book: if you are thinking of using her in some way to acertain Spider-Man's real identity- don't. Using her against him, that's exactly what all these people you claim to despise have also done.

*

May 30th, 2004:

" _What_?" John's father demanded.

John sighed and went over it again. "Don't print her name. Or any details at all about her."

Jonah Jameson rolled his eyes theatrically. " _Why_?"

"Because she has a right to privacy-"

"You have no idea how glad I am you didn't become a journalist, boy."

"-and because I'm asking you to. Come on. What good will it do? She was _kidnapped_. That's a pretty bad experience for anyone, and you're just gonna drag it up for her again."

The pair of them shared a long look. Jameson looked away first, and grunted. "Guess you really do love her. Pity she couldn't return the favour, really."

"Dad, we've been through this."

"Fine," Jameson said gruffly. "We don't print her name. And I hope to completely _forget_ her name as soon as possible." He flipped his chair around and turned his back on John, who folded his arms in irritation.

"Right, Dad. I'll see you around, I guess."

"Bye," Jameson said coolly, but after John had left the office, Jameson turned around again and watched him through the glass doors as he left.


	33. THE SECOND AFTERMATH part 3

The World And Superhumanity by Anna D Webb:

The search for the Green Goblin's real identity had previously been narrowed down to two people: the first being Bart Hamilton, a former Oscorp employee. After being defeated by Spider-Man, he was arrested in costume and locked up- but he had, unbeknownst to the arresting officers, concealed drugs on his person. He took an overdose, and died during the night, before anybody had a chance to properly question him. Because he was the first face seen under the mask, popular opinion had it that he was the only Green Goblin; we now know that he was merely a copycat.

All evidence, which I will examine here, instead pointed to it being Norman Osborn, former head of Oscorp Industries- he is known now to have created the persona. Being the head of the company he would have had access to the strength enhancers Oscorp was allegedly developing at around the same time the Goblin first appeared, and a little digging reveals that Osborn was on the verge of losing his leadership of the company around the date of the World Unity Festival- during which, of course, most of the Oscorp board members were killed. Then, of course, there is the fact that on the same night as the dramatic battle on the Queensboro bridge, Osborn's body was delivered to his mansion by Spider-Man himself. Few people, though, instantly assumed Osborn had been the Goblin- most newspapers theorized, if they theorized at all, that Osborn had simply found himself mixed up in superhuman affairs (the Goblin's equipment was stolen from his company, after all) and was murdered for knowing too much. Possibly many people looked the other way when confronted with other facts: the man was a well-known public figure, after all, and his teenage son was still alive and well and vulnerable.

We shall turn now, in fact, to the curious matter of Osborn's son...

*

June 2nd, 2004:

At nine o' clock, when darkness was just beginning to fall, Harry Osborn went to Wally's Diner. He knew Peter wouldn't be there, Peter had been fired long ago (for constantly being late and/or disappearing in the middle of the day, no less), but he went there anyway. His mind was going crazy. It bounced zanily off different thoughts and ideas, not allowing him to think too hard, or take a thought to its natural conclusion, or feel much else but hate and fear.

The diner was virtually empty. There was a bored kid behind the counter reading a magazine, a couple of old men talking, and a depressed-looking blonde in a table at the corner. Harry ordered some coffee, and sat slumped in his seat thinking.

_You have the glider and the bombs and the Oz drugs: really he left all that stuff for you so there's no point rejecting it now-_

_You could run away you know, just pack your things and head for London, he won't find you there, none of them will-_

_You don't know what to do, do you?_

He stirred his coffee.

_And what about MJ? She ran off with Peter, but she'll hate you after this-_

"Harry?" someone said.

He looked up and saw, with surprise, that it was Liz. Liz Allen. He hadn't seen her for _ages_. Barely talked to her even when he did run into her. He was surprised he even remembered her face.

"Hello, Liz."

Without being asked, Liz pulled a chair up next to him. "Haven't seen you for a while," she said. "How've you been? Anything interesting going on?"

_Well, yes, actually, Liz. My best friend killed my father, and now my dead father is telling me to kill him._

"No."

"Me and Flash just had a fight," Liz said, oblivious to Harry's discomfort. "I went out. Didn't think I'd find you here, but I'm glad I did." She flashed him a smile. Harry ignored it.

"You two are still together?" he finally asked.

"Yeah. Weird, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry said cooly. He took another drink of coffee, and it was then that Liz surprised him. She said, "Hey...you're not alright, are you? You haven't been alright for a while."

"What?"

"I...it's just..." She backed off a little. "You know...MJ's mentioned it once or twice. About your dad."

Harry stared at her. "What did she say?"

"That you miss him."

Harry said nothing. The voices in his head were going quieter. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

"It must suck," Liz said.

"It does."

Both of them were quiet after that. Harry finished his coffee.

"So," Liz said finally. "What're you doing now?"

"I got my dad's company."

"Cool. What do you guys do?"

"You read the papers lately?" Harry asked, and to his surprise she actually nodded. "Remember the whole Doc Ock thing? Man with metal arms?"

"Oh, yeah."

"That was us."

"Cool!" she said, and then blushed. "I mean, ur, that was bad, right? 'Cos it was an accident."

"Yeah. We lost a lot of money."

"What happened to him, anyway?"

"Who?"

"Doc Ock."

"I don't know. Spider-Man probably killed him."

Liz looked at him hard, opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. "Um," she said. "Um...you know, I dunno where I'm staying tonight. Flash probably won't let me back in the flat."

"Your parents?"

"They live in Chicago."

"Hotel?"

"I've got no money. At all."

*

Harry led the way down the corridor, turning on the lights as he went. Liz trailed behind, clutching her handbag. She looked rather in awe of the place.

"Look at all the masks!" she said. "And _leather_ sofas."

"That's where you can sleep," Harry said deliberately. Liz only barely seemed to hear him, though. She was reaching out for one of the masks.

"Don't touch that," Harry snapped, and Liz dropped her hand instantly. She turned her attention to the portraits hanging on the wall.

"Who's that?" she said, a note of perhaps fake brightness in her voice.

Harry looked where she was looking. "My mother."

"Oh."

While she continued to look around the room, Harry found a blanket and threw it over one of the sofas. He didn't stop to consider what sofa it was, or what had previously been on it. "Liz? You can sleep here."

"Thanks," she said. She flashed him another smile- also possibly fake- went to the sofa, and sat down. "I love this house."

"Uh-huh."

"It's so old and gorgeous."

"Uh-huh. Thanks, Liz. I'm going to bed. See ya later."

Liz's face fell a little bit, but she turned around and pulled the blankets over her. Harry left the room, turning the lights off, and went to his.

*

The New York Times, Interview with the Train Passengers, June 2004:

When this interviewer brings up rumours of alleged criminal activity- naming, the frequently-in-the-press-'fact' that Spider-Man murdered Norman Osborn- the atmosphere goes immediately frosty. "Don't be ridiculous," snaps Anna McDonald, 33. "That's purely made up by people with a grudge against him, like the _Bugle_. There's not a shred of evidence against him. None." Eleanor is quick to agree. "Wasn't that whole story developed on the back of one person's comments?" she says. "Yeah, I remember- Osborn's son, wasn't it? One person." Jonas joins in. "It's ridiculous. That some newspapers would take the word of a traumatized kid, rather than looking at the facts."

I ask the train passengers what they make of Doc Ock's recent death, and confirmation of his identity. "No sympathy at all, really," Hugo shrugs. ""The man tried to kill us, after all." Manisha Holmes, 22, disagrees. "I can't bring myself to hate him, you know," she muses. "From all accounts he was a brilliant scientist, just driven mad."

"I do wonder how he died," Elanor says, staring off into the distance. "If I ever do meet Spider-Man, I'll ask him." She comes back down to earth. "Not to gloat or anything, no way. I'm just curious. I wonder if he ever did anything to atone for himself."

Christopher, who is clearly a man of the world, shrugs. "I doubt it," he says. "There's bad eggs in this town. Anyway, the man was a murderer, or at least a would-be murderer- what he did next is really none of my concern."

*

June 3rd, 2004:

Midnight:

Someone knocked on the door.

"Harry?" came Liz's voice. "I can't sleep."

Harry groaned, got up, and went to the door. "Liz? That's not my problem."

"I get a creepy feeling in that room." Liz complained. "Even if I turn the lights on. It's _scary_."

Harry sighed and opened the door. He was, after all, still dressed, and fortunately Liz was too. "Liz, go away."

She didn't. "It feels like there's something in the room," she muttered. "Watching me. You know that mirror you have? It feels like there's something standing there."

Harry said nothing.

"Something really nasty. It was sort of..." She blushed. " _Screaming_ at me. In my head."

Harry looked at her and saw she actually looked, on close inspection, quite pale and frightened. He felt a tiny spark of pity for her, and sighed.

"Come and sleep on the floor, then."

She walked into the room. Harry threw her a pillow and blanket, and she awkwardly arranged herself on the carpet.

"Thanks," she said.

"S'alright."

He switched the light off. Neither of them slept-

- _something really nasty, screaming at me in my head-_

-they were both wondering if they were anything other than a couple of freaked-out kids, all alone in the dark.

*

Liz Allen's blog, June 3rd 2004:

had another fight with flash. nearly threw my fucking dinner at him. i hate it. i hate that we have so many arguments and then just forgive each other and come back together, it's stupid, and it's been going on for years. he CHEATS, as well. so do i, but he fucking started it. and i only did a few times, compared to him kissing sluts he just met right in front of me (he does that a lot).

i hate that the defining relationship of my life is such a fucked up one.

anyway, so i ran out, met an old friend from high school. didn't mean to, but i spent the night at his. hope flash believes me when i tell him that nothing happened.


	34. THE SECOND AFTERMATH part 4

June 4th 2004:

After class one day, Peter found himself sitting in a cafe with Gwen Stacy, his lab partner. Only months ago he would never have pictured himself doing something as simple as sitting drinking coffee with someone, and it was fantastic, the freedom he felt. Halfway into the conversation he was having with Gwen, he realised he was grinning a little too much and toned it down: he didn't want her getting the wrong impression.

"Connors is great," Gwen was saying cheerfully. She was on her second chocolate brownie.

"He's a very good teacher," Peter agreed.

"How'd he lose his arm?"

"War, I think."

"Wow," Gwen said thoughtfully. She took a sip of coffee, and changed the subject. "Thanks for agreeing to help me out in class, Peter."

"It's nothing," Peter said. "I used to..." He was going to say _used to help my best friend out, back in high school,_ but then he remembered he didn't have a best friend anymore. "I used to help people out all the time."

"You're sure you don't mind?"

Peter shook his head. "You're not bad at science, you know."

"Oh, I am," she said, still cheerfully. "I was always more into drama, that sort of thing. I'm gonna be a model." She bit into her brownie. "But...a different _kind_ of model, you know. The sort that can eat chocolate, and isn't a ditz. I guess that's kinda why I took science in the first place."

"Because it's not ditzy?" Peter asked. He quite liked Gwen. Any would-be model who still ate tons of chocolate gained points right away in his book, for being sensible. "Right?"

"Actually, it was kinda because my dad thought it was a good idea," Gwen admitted. "But I don't mind it. You love it, right?"

"Yeah."

Gwen finished off her brownie, and licked her fingers. "So...let's hear about you, huh? You got a girlfriend?"

"Yeah," Peter said. He watched her reaction, but she really was geniunely just being friendly, not prying for information. "She's great," he said dreamily, and then snapped back to reality. "What about you, you got anyone?"

"Kinda," she said. "I went out with this guy few nights ago. I thought it was just a bit of fun, but he sort of took it...more serious." She looked away for a minute, and then cheerfully took a sip of coffee. "I guess that's a no, really. Haven't got anyone." She changed the subject. "Thanks _so_ much for helping me, Pete."

"Really, it's no problem."

"I know, but thanks." She flashed him a smile, and downed her coffee. "I should really go now. My dad...can get worried." She gave a little grin. "He's kinda overprotective."

"Oh, don't worry," Peter reassured her. "I'll see ya in class, alright?"

"Yeah," she said. She put her jacket on, and gave him a little wave. "Thanks so much! See you tomorrow." And she was gone.

Peter still had half a cup of coffee to finish, so he went to get a newspaper to read. He picked one out completely at random- it was the _New York Times_ , and it had a very interesting interview in it. He read the first few lines, and beamed in a positively triumphant manner.

Then he ordered more coffee, and settled down to read.

*

Ursula Ditkovich's Diary, June 5th 2004:

Still feel kinda low, you know. I don't know why. I mean, these days, I even get along with my father better, quite a bit better, probably cos he went out and got a proper job and we have a bit of money now. But I feel low in the sense that I should be Doing Something With My Life. I want to be a writer so bad. Sometimes I think I might even be good at it. But I've done nothing so far. In a month or so I won't even be a teenager anymore. It will be my 20th birthday on the 10th of July.

But. But...something kinda happened recently. After that whole thing with someone trying to get into Peter's room, the man I offered cake to, I went and told Peter what had happened and he said something to me. Something like, _you keep making cakes, they're good stuff._ And I have this weird feeling like he was trying to tell me something.

*

June 4th 2004:

"You're late," MJ said. This was indeed true: Peter had meant to meet MJ at the park at 4am, but had instead gotten sidetracked by the newspaper article. He quickly dismissed it. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to leave you waiting." MJ gave an understanding smile, and took his hand.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"Oh, not bad. Sort of same as always, I guess."

"Save anyone?"

"This morning I prevented a mugging."

MJ smiled, but there was a certain tightness behind it, and then she said, "Peter, I'm worried about John."

"You are?"

"I...he's sent me all these emails, and my mom says he just keeps phoning." She looked down at the ground. "I wrote back...I said he could come to my play if he wanted...but that was all I said. I don't know what to do...I _can't_ go meet him, Peter," She blinked. "Not after I hurt him so bad."

"What are you worried about, MJ?" Peter asked.

"That he'll never forgive me."

Peter hugged her. "Oh, MJ...he will. How on earth _couldn't_ he?"

MJ hugged back, but Peter didn't see that tears were beginning to escape her eyes. And he didn't notice even after she had let go of him, because the interview that sang his praises was still working its way round and round his head.

_The world they're living in, it's a different place because of me..._

*

June 5th 2004:

Harry sat alone in the room he now called the workshop, an almost-finished mask in his hands. It looked quite good. He was spray-painting it green.

"That girl who was here," said his father's voice.

Harry ignored him, and finished the painting.

"Reminded me of your mother. Gold-digger. Remember. You have bad taste in women." His voice was snide. "Although I should be grateful that it _was_ a woman. I remember those magazines I found under your bed when you were fourteen."

Harry said nothing.

"People like your mother," his father continued, "oh, they're capable of _unforgiveable_ things. Don't you see that girl again."

"I won't."

"Tell me, how do you feel about Peter Parker now?"

He paused. He didn't know, he had never known, but he had to say something.

"I hate him."

"Good."

He put the mask down on the table, wandered through to the main room, and took Emily's portrait down. He had one of his father to hang up in its place.

*

The New York Times, Interview with the Train Passengers, June 2004:

As the train passengers get up to leave, all of them shake hands politely, but I can't help sensing a sort of _disquiet_ in the air. I don't know why. They're all alive, which is the main thing, and Spider-Man is these days widely hailed as a hero. When I mention this to Eleanor, she just shakes her head.

"I don't know. I can't explain it." she says, "It's just that...back when I made the decision to settle down and start a family, three years ago, I _never_ imagined that one day, me and my youngest child would be saved from certain death by a man with spider-powers." She gives a little smile. "It's just...men with spider-powers, people with metal arms...I guess maybe people are still wary about where they stand. I mean...the world has changed so much. I just hope nothing terrible comes of it."

*

June 6th 2004:

A young man leaned against the side of the Daily Bugle offices-his new workplace- reading a copy of _The New York Times_. He was rather unremarkable. Blond hair, leather jacket- no-one even gave him a second glance. He had his reporter's notebook in hand. His camera was around his neck, but he didn't need it for now. His pen hovered over the notebook paper.

_It's just...men with spider-powers, people with metal arms...I guess maybe people are still wary about where they stand. I mean...the world has changed so much._

The young man scrawled the quote in his notebook. He collected things like that. He always used to watch the news from his sofa with a notebook in hand, but then he'd hit hard times and had had to sell the TV.

_Never mind, I'll get it back soon enough. And other stuff. And maybe I'll ask that gorgeous blonde Gwen out. She's bound to say yes._

He read over what he'd just noted down. One more little thing for his own little archive. He felt pretty good.

Eddie Brock folded the newspaper into his backpack, and continued on down the street, noting down the last words of the article:

_I just hope nothing terrible comes of it._


	35. INTERLUDE

The Daily Bugle letters page, June 12th 2004:

Dear All,

There has been much debate on the subject of Spider-Man, and superhumans in general. I'm going to offer you the perspective of an ordinary guy. The voice of the ordinary guy has, after all, been seriously disregarded so far. Time to even things out a bit.

Most of my family are doctors. I work as a paramedic; my father worked as a surgeon. I say work _ed_ because he's dead. Earlier this year he was going about his business as usual when a man with four metal arms attached to his back was brought to the hospital. They asked for volunteers to help him: my father volunteered.

Three hours later I got a call from the hospital, and half an hour after that I stood at the door of the operating theater and looked at the dead bodies strewn about the floor. Back then I was too shocked to feel much of anything: these days I feel anger. Anger that our government allows these superhumans- such as Spider-Man- to go around unchecked. Anger that people just aren't waking up and seeing the trail of destrcution left in their wake. Remember the strange phenomena in New York only a few weeks ago? With people reporting that metal objets, even cars, flew down the street? No? Scientists have investigated: they have concluded that it was a) almost certainly Otto Octavius's doing and b) that if it had continued it could well have pulled the whole city underwater. Killed millions. Think about that.

And yet Spider-Man still gains respect. I say he's not getting any respect from me until he takes the mask off, gives up the superpowers and joins the police force, like he should have done all along. I can hear the arguments now: 'If he was in the police force, he'd just be sitting around filling out forms all day, and my child/brother/sister/parent/hamster might die!' I say: Them's the breaks. You all need to stop relying on him so much. It's ridiculous. Take some control of your own lives, don't hang around waiting for some sad man in spandex to save you.

I'll probably get ranted at by people whose lives have been saved by the man. I'm not trying to insult them, I'm genuinely not. Of course he's done _some_ good, but he's brought a whole lotta bad along with it. I remain convinced that if not for him, my father wouldn't have died that night. And don't even get me started on all the various murders and crimes he's accused of.

What will all this lead to, I wonder? What will happen when more and more superhumans descend upon the earth, and they refuse to accept the responsibility which comes with power? How many innocents will be caught in the crossfire? The next time something happens like the showdown on the Queensboro bridge, or the bank robbery not long ago, how many people, confident that Spider-Man will save them, just get themselves killed?

I wonder.

In conclusion, I want the world to open its eyes. We're better than this. Is it any wonder no-one has any faith in humanity left?

-Anonymous   
 


	36. THE BATTLE ROYALE

June 19th, 2004:

Before racing home after seeing what and who was on the television screens, Peter made one more stop. His aunt's apartment. Just to check. A feeling of horrible dread came to him as he raced up the stairs and banged on the door, but his aunt opened it, and ushered him in.

"It's MJ," she said with a sigh. "Isn't it?"

"Yeah," Peter said wretchedly. "She's in trouble, Aunt May."

The television was on in a corner of the room. Both of them turned their eyes to that direction.

"I'm scared," Peter said, but so quietly that May didn't hear him. Or possibly she did, but she didn't show it. She walked towards the television and turned the volume down. "You know," she said. "MJ will be doing okay up there at the moment. I'm not saying she'll be unafraid, of course not, but she's strong. Even if she doesn't know it."

Peter nodded. Anxiety was pulsing through him.

"And Spider-Man will save her," May said. "Don't you think so?" she added in a rather pointed tone, when Peter said nothing in reply.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Yeah." He glanced at the television, and MJ's frightened face looked back at him. He couldn't take it anymore. "I'd...I'd better go. Sorry, Aunt May."

"You sounded a bit doubtful," May said, sounding slightly anxious herself, as Peter headed for the door. "He will save her, Peter. I know it. Even if he's been going through a bad patch recently."

Peter stopped and looked back at her, and nodded. "Uh-huh." he said. He couldn't think of anything better. "He will."

"I have faith in him. Don't you?" she asked, and gave him a look he couldn't read. Silence hung in the air for a couple of seconds. "Now run along, Peter. Do what you can." She opened the front door, and Peter stared out into the dark lobby. He blinked, took a deep breath, and tried to force away the fear he felt.

"Yeah," he said, not knowing what else to say, and looking for something in the madness to hold onto, "I do have faith in him."

"Good," May said. "Now go and save her."

She closed the door.

Peter ran.


	37. THE BATTLE ROYALE part 1

June 19th, 2004:

London, 7:30am:

Christine Steinhauer shuffled into the room, a cup of tea in hand. Her cousin Tina- who was thirty-nine years old, but acted fifteen- had gone to a Robbie Williams concert in Milton Keynes. She was staying out for two days, and Christine had declined her invitation to come along. So she was left by herself, staring out of the window.

_you keep an eye on her son, Christine_

The words buzzed round her brain whenever she felt alone, or unhappy. She wished they would go away.

_You never think about New York, or the house, or Harry, anymore. You could have at least written to him and asked if he'd found the diary. He's probably been wondering all this time how you came across it in the first place, and why you didn't even tell him about it in person._

She put her tea down on the nearest table, and settled down on the sofa. She found the remote control down behind a cushion.

_I wonder what he's doing now. I hope he's okay._

She turned the television on.

*

June 19th, 2004, 2:30am:

Ursula Ditkovich turned the television off.

She opened her bedroom door, and walked across the landing. She knocked on Peter's door. For five seconds nobody answered, and then finally a voice called, "Come in."

She walked in. Peter was sitting on the bed, a small box in his hands. He looked like he'd just hastily buttoned his shirt. "Is this important?" he asked wearily.

"Do you know already?" Ursula whispered. "About Mary Jane."

"Yeah, I know," he said.

"What are you gonna do?" she asked, feeling foolish. "Spider-Man will save her, right?"

"Yes," he answered. "He will."

"Are you gonna go down to that building site?" She almost said _and will you take me with you_ , although she didn't know why.

"Yes," Peter said. He looked at her, and then he gestured to the shelf by the door. "Ursula? Throw me that key, will you?"

Ursula looked and saw a key lying there among the books. She picked it up, and tossed it to him. He caught it easily, and unlocked the box, but didn't open it. "Thanks, Ursula. You'd better go," he said. So she turned, but then Peter added- in a strange fashion, like he was offering advice to a little sister- "Ursula, if you go out tonight- or even if you don't- be careful. Okay?" He gave her a look. A look she couldn't quite read. "Be careful. I don't want you in danger."

Ursula stared, nodded, and walked away.

She sat in her room, turned on the TV, watched it for a few seconds, and turned it off again. Back on. Back off. She waited to hear Peter running down the stairs. But she didn't.

After about five minutes had passed, she went to his door, and knocked. No-one answered. She pushed it and it opened. No-one was in there, but the box was open on the bed. She peered inside. Nothing.

The key was lying next to it. She picked it up and turned it round and round in her hands.

*

Ursula ran.

It was dark, and she was nervous. She had a backpack containing her diary slung over her shoulder, and Peter's warning was echoing in her ears. Oh, she was being _stupid_. She drew her coat round her, took a deep breath to calm her nerves, and looked around. The streets were crowded with people. Some looked pleased and some looked panicked, but they were all heading in the same direction.

She hailed a taxi.

"Can you take me to the big construction site?" she asked anxiously. "The one on TV? The one where, um...everyone's going."

The taxi driver looked at her. "It'll cost you," he said cheerfully. Clearly, business at the moment was good. "Even if you can't get through, it'll cost you. Got it?"

"Yeah," Ursula said. She had stuffed a few twenty-dollar bills in her pockets before she left.

"Right. Good."

They made their way slowly through the streets of New York. Everyone seemed to be going in the same direction as them- Ursula could see people walking past, talking animatedly.

She leaned back and stared out of the window, into the night.

*

When she arrived, all she could see was a huge crowd of people, and a few ambulances and police cars off in the distance. Bizzarely, she was reminded of a rock concert or some such thing. The emergency lights flickering in the distance were the spotlights, and the people and monsters fighting it out on the building site were the band, playing to a full house, and everyone would go home safely at the end. Of course.

She paid the taxi driver, took a deep breath, and made her way through the crowd. She was hoping to run into someone she knew-

- _not mary jane, because she's up there_ -

-but she figured it was quite unlikely. She gritted her teeth, and continued on. Working her way through the mass of people was tricky, but she managed it, and she began to head for the ambulances. She didn't know why.

_To get a better view? To try and help out?_

_Why are you even here?_

There was a loud shriek from the people around her. Ursula didn't join in. She was approaching the front of the crowd now, inching towards the ambulances. One of them was open, and there was a TV in there, repeating back what the reporters on the front lines were saying. The small gathering of reporters weren't too far away, so it made a weird echoing effect.

Ursula stared up at the building site, and the blurs she could faintly see at the top. She imagined Spider-Man, stopping to rest for a second, was staring back at her, but she doubted it. She peered inside the ambulance. There wasn't anyone in there. She felt oddly....empty.

A young man, smoking a cigarette, came up to the ambulance. He flicked his cigarette away, and looked at her. "Hey, kid. You hurt?"

"No,"

"Beat it, then."

He went into the ambulance and didn't give her another look, so Ursula nervously cleared her throat and stood by the open doors. "Um, are people _likely_ to get hurt?"

The man gave a laugh. "Kid. Look out at the idiots. There's a huge battle playing out right above them, and they're just standing there gawking. I'll be amazed if the body count is lower than twenty."

Ursula said nothing. As the man washed his hands in the ambulance sink, she cleared her throat and said, "Can I help? With anything at all?"

"You know first aid?"

"No."

"Then what are you gonna do? Roller-skate? Sing songs?" He gave her a dark, cynical look, and shook his hands dry. "Go home, kid. You're of no help. Those guys-" he jerked a finger towards the site- "-this is their show. They decide how it ends, okay? Don't be a moron and hang around."

He closed the doors on her. Ursula stood there for about five seconds-

- _WHY are you here_ -

-and then she moved away again. She found somewhere to sit- some stairs- and settled down there, her back to all the action.

"Kid," someone said.

She barely heard, but she turned around, expecting it to be the ambulance man again. But it wasn't. It was her father.

Another roar from the crowd. She stared at him and opened her mouth to try and say something, but only suceeded in murmuring, "What?"

"Too dangerous here," he said, getting straight to the point as usual. "Come on."

She got up.

"How did you find me?" she asked loudly, above the shouts and screams of the crowd. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"'Cos that is Peter's woman up there. You know her," her father said simply. "And you like Peter. Obvious. Where is he?"

"I don't know," Ursula answered. "Around here somewhere, I guess."

"We'll look for him," her father said.

He marched off without a word, and she followed. She felt cold. She wound her way through the crowd, and the shouting echoed over and over in her ears. She heard other noises, too: some child crying, something being thrown to the floor, some snatch of music from someone's ipod.

_Keep a note of the details, kid, this will make one hell of a story when it's over-_


	38. THE BATTLE ROYALE part 2

June 19th, 2004, 2:58am:

They made their way to the front of the crowd. It was mostly photographers there, and the police. Ursula looked up and down; no sign of Peter.

"He's not here," she told her father.

"Where is he, then?"

Ursula shrugged and looked skywards again. Her father stared at her, and then followed her gaze.

"Why Peter's woman?" he said slowly. "What has the girl done? Wrong place, wrong time?"

"I don't know," Ursula answered.

"Maybe we will get interviewed," he said, suddenly more cheerful. "We can tell him we know this girl, and her boyfriend. Maybe they give us money."

Ursula gave him a look.

"And maybe they know where Peter is," he added. "That's main reason. Hell, if he love this girl so much, maybe he up there." He pointed to the construction site.

"Yes," Ursula said. "Maybe he is."

"I will find someone to talk to, I think."

Before Ursula could stop him, her father had walked through a line of police- they seemed to have given up trying to seperate the crowd from the authorities- walked up to a man shouting orders, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"What?" the man shouted, not turning around. "No, we've tried helicopters," he shouted into his radio. "What else have you got?...we're in the middle of the city! For god's sake." He lowered the radio again.

"Sir," Mr Ditkovich said. "We talk?"

"No," the man snapped.

"The woman up there, the woman in the car. We know her."

The man turned around. Ursula thought she recognized him from the newspapers- the police captain, George Stacy. There was a pretty young blonde girl standing next to him, and Ursula recognized her too- his daughter, Gwen. She'd nearly died once. Spider-Man had saved her, and at Spider-Man Day, she'd kissed him. Ursula wondered what she was feeling now.

"Even so," Captain Stacy was saying, "you'll have to get back behind the line. We can call you later to interview you, once this is all over. See one of the other officers, they'll give you a form to fill in."

"Interview for money?"

"No. You want the newspapers for that." He turned back to his radio. "We might have to evacuate if this gets much worse. Evacuate the whole street if possible-" Mr Ditkovich turned away in disgust.

"We find someone _else_ to talk to."

"Dad, come on. Let's move back." Ursula said. Her eye had fallen on a small group of people standing not too far away. A woman with red hair, a short, balding man, and a handsome dark-haired young man who she thought looked vaguely familiar. She edged forward to hear their conversation.

"-came as soon as we heard," the young man was saying. "My parents are here too, somewhere. Don't cry, Mrs Watson. It'll be okay, I promise."

The red-haired woman swiped at her face with a tissue. Her eyes were fixated on the taxi in the air. "It's always her!" she sobbed. "Why her? Why my baby?"

"I don't know, Mrs Watson," the young man said. Ursula knew who he was now...John Jameson, astronaunt. Another one she'd seen in the papers. She was bizzarely tempted to ask for his autograph. "But we'll think about that later. Right now we have to focus on getting her out of here."

"I'm never gonna have a moment's peace again," the woman said bleakly. "This is the _third time_..."

"Excuse me," Ursula heard herself say. All three people turned around to look at her. She spoke to the older two. "Are you Mary Jane's parents?"

"Yes," the woman said. She crumpled her tissue in her hand. "Who are you, dear?"

"I'm, um, a friend of her's."

"Do you know how she got up there?" the balding man snapped. He gestured wildly around. "Do you know why these goddamn bastards won't let me just go up there and bring her down?"

"They've tried that, Mr Watson," John Jameson said, sounding faintly exasperated. "The Sandman, or whatever he is, he's keeping us all back."

"And then there was- that other thing," Mrs Watson said, dissolving into sobs. "Oh God, she was kidnapped by _that_ -"

Mr Ditkovich joined the fray. "What's going on here, girl?"

"Mary Jane's parents, Dad," Ursula said. No-one was particularly listening to her anymore, though. They were all staring up at the taxi, and Ursula didn't blame them. She turned her back.

"I just bought us some hot dogs," her father said, completely out of left field.

"What?"

"Hot dogs. There is a vendor over-"

The last part of his sentence was drowned out by a scream from nearby. Ursula whirled around, and looked up to see someone falling from the taxi. She screamed too, without even meaning to- and then Mary Jane, for it could only be her, stopped in mid-air, caught by one of the webs which surrounded the place.

"Oh, Christ," she heard John Jameson say. Mrs Watson dissolved into hysterical tears.

Ursula stared around. People were starting to back away. Mr Watson was yelling something, although she wasn't quite sure what, and George Stacy was yelling into his radio. She thought she could hear a helicopter, too, although she wasn't sure.

She was once more surprised to hear herself speak. "Hot dogs?" she said. "Thanks, Dad."

*

June 19th, 2004, 3:02am:

Madeline Watson leaned against the barrier which seperated her from her daughter. Not taking her eyes off the small white blur in the air, she began to construct a prayer in her head. _Let her live and I'll do anything. I'll go to church. I'll let Phil into the house again. I'll volunteer at a homeless shelter. Anything in the world. Just please, let her not die._

She looked around. Phil and John were talking to the police again, but the thin blonde girl who she'd exchanged a few words with was approaching her. She was holding something.

"I brought you some food," she said. Madeline barely even realised the girl was talking to her at first. "What?" she asked.

"I brought you a hot dog." she said. She offered it.

"Thanks," Madeline said. She wasn't in the mood for eating, or anything at all except watching and praying. "But I'm not hungry."

"I'll have it," the girl's father said. He snatched it from her hands.

"It's gonna be okay, Mrs Watson," the girl said.

The ground shook.

Madeline felt a fresh flash of fear in her stomach, and then- in a moment which seemed to drag out for hours- something rose above the buildings. People started to scream. Madeline didn't, but only because in that moment it seemed like moving any muscle at all would turn her to dust. Sand flowed down the side of broken walls, across the ground, across girders and glass-

A sand monster swiped at the air.

She still didn't scream. The crowd started to move backwards in a panicked mass, and she was carried along with it.

_I'll do anything. I mean it. Anything at all. If she doesn't die-_

She was knocked backwards by the force of the crowd, falling and smashing her hands harsh against the concrete. Someone grabbed her, picked her up- and _then_ she screamed. Screamed like she'd never screamed before.

"It's me!" Phil screamed back at her. He dragged her, still yelling, back towards the barrier. "Stop it! It's me. You'll be alright."

"I said I'd kill him," she sobbed, her voice sounding alien even to her.

"What?"

"Back when all this started. I remember telling Mary. If I found out who it was took her, took her the _first_ time, I'd kill him."

Phil stared at her. "C'mon, calm down," he said. He waited until she did. "They're gonna get her down from there. I swear. She'll be okay." He had repeated this multiple times in the past few hours, and this was just one more time. She wanted to kick him down and run away, or worse, blame him for what had happened. But she couldn't, not this time.

John approached them. A man who could only be his father was following behind him, barking orders into a mobile phone. "You guys okay?" he called anxiously. "We've got to get out of here. The police told us, anyone who doesn't have to be here should leave."

"I'm staying right here!" Madeline screamed. She looked around wildly. The ever-increasing gaggle of cameras and reporters were almost falling over each other to get nearer the scene, and the police were still shouting things left and right. The thin blonde girl and her father were still standing nearby, staring at the monster. It had gone terribly cold.

_Let her be alright let her be alright let her be alright-_

She struggled to keep her eyes on her daughter.

"She'll be alright," John suddenly said. He stood next to her. "She's strong. Stronger than any of us know, I think. She's going to come out of this just fine." His voice trembled a little. "She _will_."

"How do you know?" Madeline whispered.

"I just do," he said. He glanced skyward one last time, and raced off after his father.

Madeline didn't watch him go. She kept her eyes on her daughter, as if she could bring her back to earth again by sheer force of will alone.

_Don't worry my love your mother will save you-_

A deathly silence fell over the crowd.   
 


	39. THE SECOND AFTERMATH part 5

June 19th, 2004, 3:03am:

Madeline clung to the barrier until her knuckles turned white. Phil and John stood to the side.

"I never came to her show," Phil muttered. "That show she was in. I never saw her sing."

"You will," John said.

Madeline said nothing, just kept up the half-prayer half-plea in her head: _you'll be alright my darling everything will be alright I promise..._

*

June 19th, 2004, 3:04am:

Gwen shivered. For the last few hours, she'd barely moved. Slowly, she took her eyes off the sky and turned to her father.

"I _kissed_ him," she said. "Spider-Man saved my life, and we're just watching him get... _killed_. Is this the best we can do?"

Captain Stacy said nothing.

"Can't we send in a helicopter, or... _something_?"

"We've tried that, Gwen. We've tried most everything."

Gwen tried to look back, and found she couldn't. She felt tired and worn; it had been a long week. Long month. She kept looking up at Mary Jane and wondering if she was thinking the same things she herself had thought when death opened up below her.

*

June 19th, 2004, 3:05am:

Ursula stood transfixed.

_Diary. I really wish something would happen to me. Something big and exciting and important._

Up in the air, the monsters had gained the upper hand. Ursula couldn't see very well from where she was standing, but she could make out a small red blur being slowly crushed by the hand of the sand monster, and a small white blur still up there in the web.

_I don't know what, but I want it so bad. It's like I'm staring at the television screen and it's all in there instead. All of the important stuff is hiding in there. None of it feels real._

She stared up at the sky, breathing out into the cold air. She could see the stars. If she looked past the monsters.

_Either it doesn't feel real, or I don't._

"My lord," her father said, quieter than she'd ever heard him. "I think he is going to die. Maybe us too."

_Is it any wonder no-one has any faith in humanity left?_

All around was silent. Her voice echoed out.

"No-" Ursula said.

"-we're _not_."

*

Emily David's Diary, 9th July 1983:

I'm writing this from hospital. It's midnight.

It's been a while. Harry is two years old now. He doesn't see me often. He's looked after by nannies, or Bernard, who Norman named godfather, and it breaks my fucked-up heart. He looks like his dad, and not like me.

I keep feeling like I should write something important. Write something good. Can't think of a thing. I'm lying in a hospital bed and for all I know I might die in a year, or a month, or a week. I oughta get something right. I feel like I've been pulled along on invisible ropes all my life and never done a single thing properly.

I love you, kid. You'll be a good man someday.

I pray that means as much to you someday as it does to me right now.

*

June 19th, 2004, 2:37am:

It was dark. Harry was sitting just behind the broken mirror in the living room. He had never felt so alone in his entire life: even Bernard, after his cryptic explanation-

- _there is no doubt your father died by his own hand_ -

-had gone away, and he was left slumped by the piles of shattered glass, wondering what to do. He felt downright sick, and he could barely bring himself to stand up. When he did, he found himself staggering through to the kitchen, with the vague idea of getting some alcohol, before remembering that there probably wasn't any. So he sat down on a chair instead, and stared around. He felt like he was a ghost in his own house.

 _Why should you go risk your life for him? He almost killed you, and he burned your face._ It didn't even sound like his father's voice in his head anymore, but he didn't want to think about it. He grasped around in his mind for something to cling to, and finally came up with, _he's my friend_. It didn't seem like much at all- and it barely made sense to him- but as time ticked by and he didn't move from where he sat, it was _something_ , at least. Something to hold on to, for just one second longer.

A spider ran out from under the table.

Harry barely noticed it at first, then when he saw it crawling towards the cupboard in the corner, he followed it with his eyes. It ran underneath the cupboard, and he got up and went to look. He didn't know why. He didn't know if he wanted to catch it and crush it, or let it go. He didn't know anything. But he knelt down, and looked under the cupboard.

The spider was scurrying away, but there was a slip of paper sitting there in the dust. Baffled, he pulled it out and read it.

_harry look in the cupboard there's something in there you should see. christine_

He crumpled the piece of paper in his hands. It was the only sound in the room. He turned to the cupboard, and opened it, half-expecting that something would jump out at him, and pull him into the dark. But nothing did. There was nothing in the cupboard but some old cookbooks.

_Come on. Close the door, go upstairs, go to sleep- by the time this night is over, Peter will probably be dead._

But he didn't. He started to move the books. He shifted them from the cupboard and moved them to the floor. It took two minutes, and by the time he'd finished, there was only one thing left in there. A small green book marked EMILY.

He picked it up. If a voice told him to put it down, he didn't hear it. He opened it, and read a little. Then he moved back to his chair, sat down, and flipped the book to the last page.

He read it.

Then he got up and left.

*

June 19th, 2004:

London, eleven o' clock in the morning. 6am in New York. Sunlight shining through the windows.

Christine Steinhauer turned off the TV.


	40. THE THIRD AFTERMATH

"It was scary, Mommy," the little girl said, almost accusingly. "That sand monster was scary. I thought it was gonna crush Spidey."

Her mother sighed. "But he's gone now, sweetheart-"

"Exactly," the girl shot back. "'Cos he's in here." She tapped the jar of sand which lay on the table next to her bed. "He's trapped in there, and he can't get out. So he won't ever do bad things again."

"Really," the mother said. She knelt next to her daughter's bed.

"Yeah, Mommy. All the kids at school said so. They said when Spidey and his friend knocked over the Sandman, all the sand went everywhere. So if you went and got some sand and kept it in a jar or something, he'd never be able to put himself back together. 'Cos we'd have all the bits of him."

Her mother- a woman by the name of Sharona Prabhakar- shook her head. "You took that thing to school?"

"Yes, Mommy. All the kids thought it was cool. 'Cept for Penny," she added thoughtfully. "She told me the Sandman flew away, and that he could break glass anyway if he wanted to. But I don't believe her."

"I hope you weren't mean to her."

"No," she said indignantly. "She's sick. And even if she wasn't she's my friend. I'm not mean."

"Good."

"Look in the jar, Mommy."

Sharona looked in the jar. There was nothing but sand. She looked at it for a good while, though. You never knew, with kids. And you didn't want to offend them...

"Alright, sweetheart. He's in there."

"A bit of him's in there," the girl corrected. "That's just a bit of sand. I think maybe it's his finger. Or a toe."

"I shouldn't have taken you to that construction site," Sharona said. She had been feeling faintly guilty over that for three days now, but now she was beginning to wonder if it hadn't been a bigger mistake than she had thought. "You saw things you shouldn't have..."

"It was all monsters," the little girl said sleepily. "But Spider-Man beat them. And his friend helped. And that lady. She threw a brick at...that other one. I liked her. She had red hair like me." She pulled the covers around herself. "Don't worry, Mommy. The monsters have all gone."

Sharona stood up and looked down at her.

"Goodnight, love." she whispered, and left the room, switching the light off as she went. She went to her own bedroom and switched the TV on, and watched the monsters her daughter had spoken of flicker across the screen.

The jar of sand would disappear one day. Maybe. It was hard to think about. These days, children's fantasies practically walked the street...

She drummed her fingers anxiously on the remote control.

One could do nothing about a child's faith.


	41. THE THIRD AFTERMATH part 1

June 19th, 2004, 4:02

A small storm of sand floated through the air.

Not everyone saw it, but Ursula did.

*

Peter turned away-

- _so long little brother I'm going to miss you-_

-and took his boot off. There was a spare mask in there- he'd taken to carrying spares around, after recent events- and he pulled it over his face. MJ seemed barely aware that he was even moving.

"I have to go down and talk to people," he told her gently. "Will you be alright?"

She stared up at him blankly.

"MJ, are you gonna be all right?"

"Yes," she said. She was still clinging onto Harry's hand, and tears were running down her face. "You go."

He stood and looked at her, at them- and then he turned and clambered down the building. He went slowly. Virtually every part of his body hurt-

- _and Harry's dead-_

-but he made it down. There was still a substantial amount of people down there, and each and every single one of them had their eyes on him. But they weren't cheering. Not now. He couldn't look at them for long.

"It's over now," he said. He cleared his throat. "It's all over. You're safe now."

There was still almost complete silence, and then Captain Stacy spoke through a megaphone. Peter could see Gwen next to him, staring up worriedly. "The Sandman and the other one," he said. "Where are they?"

"They've gone," Peter said. It was the best his tired mind could think of. "They're not a danger anymore."

Captain Stacy conferred with a few other people for a couple of seconds. Then he said, "Sir, we would appreciate if you came down here, and explained it all to us-"

Peter shook his head. "Not now," he said. He gritted his teeth for the next bit. "The man who came to help me died. Died saving me. He's still up there. And the young lady is shaken, but fine- I'm going to take her home." He thought he could make out MJ's parents moving through the crowd, but couldn't be sure. "It's over now," he repeated. He stared down into the crowd, and saw Ursula Ditkovich and her father staring back at him.

He looked right at them for maybe two seconds. And then he was gone.

*

He walked across Level 72 to MJ and Harry. The city stretched out beneath him, covered in an orange glow.

"MJ," he said. He put his hand on her shoulder. "I've got to take you home."

She shook her head without looking at him. "What about Harry?"

"The police will be up here in a minute, MJ. They'll see to everything. Come on," he said, and offered his hand. "Your parents are probably really worried about you." He could hear faint shouting from the lower levels, and far away in the distance, the church bells declaring it morning.

"Are they down there?" MJ asked, swiping at her eyes. "My mom and dad?"

"I think so," he answered. "C'mon. Leave him here for now."

Slowly, she let go of Harry's hand, and took his instead. She never once took her eyes off the body, though. "I want to go home, Peter."

"Yeah," he said. "I'll take you. Hold on to me."

She did. He made sure she wasn't going to fall, and jumped off the building. The wind rushed past his ears, and for one split second it felt like he had jumped into a chasm- then he and MJ sailed over the ground, over the crowd and the cars, into the rising sun.

MJ's shoe slid off her foot, and dropped slowly into the darkness below.

*

June 19th, 2004, 4:15

The crowd milled around on the ground. Some people were eagerly climbing over the bottom level of the building site looking for souvenirs to claim, some were taking photographs, and others were watching the small group of policemen and paramedics making their way up to the higher levels. There were a few children crying.

It had been a very long night.

Duane Stamos- paramedic, and recent author of a cynical letter to the _Bugle_ \- leaned against the side of the ambulance and lit a cigarette. He watched the TV news crews in the distance: the reporters were still reporting merrily away. He wondered how much longer he'd have to stick around for. He wanted to go home.

He was so _sick_ of all the superhuman stuff. He was sick of the big battles and the runaway trains and the explosions and the worry. He supposed that because he was a paramedic he would see more of the carnage than anybody else, but all the same, he wanted it to stop.

He couldn't take another room of dead bodies.

Some kids ran past him. He felt like he was at a fairground or something. It was ridiculous.

He looked at his watch. Quarter past four.

"Time to go home, kids!" he heard a voice yelling. "It's over now. The bad guys have gone."

One of the kids- she was wearing a Spider-Man t-shirt- stopped running and turned around. "Mommy, can we go and get some sand?" she said excitedly. "Toby says it's bits of the Sandman, cos he fell apart, didn't he, and if we keep it, he won't ever be able come back cos bits of him are missin'...!" She trailed off with a yawn, and then started again. "Can we, Mommy? Get some sand?"

"No," the mother said. Duane noticed she looked a little worried. "Into the car, Susan, come on. I don't want you to see...all the hurt people." Duane felt like speaking up then and mentioning that if that was how she felt she should have left the kids at home like a normal person, but he couldn't be bothered.

"Is anyone hurt, Mommy?" the little girl asked.

"No," the woman said wearily, putting a jacket on another little girl who had run to her. "No-one's really hurt."

"Is Spider-Man hurt? You didn't let me see," she said in a accusatory tone.

"No."

"And he didn't die," she said, sounding almost adultlike in her worry. "Did he?"

"No. He's fine. You saw him leave, Susan. Now, what did you do with your glasses?"

The little girl removed them from a pocket and put them on. "Did Spider-Man's friend die?"

"No," the mother said, pointedly taking the girl's hand. "No-one's dead. And the Sandman and the other one have gone. And you don't need to run over there and get any sand to take home. Understand?"

"The lady on TV said that someone's dead," the other little girl piped up.

"Come _on_."

Duane shifted his feet. Sand was blowing past his shoes. He watched the mother and the girls leave, and flicked his cigarette away. He suddenly pictured kids keeping jars of sands next to their beds, convinced that by doing so they would keep the Sandman away. It was the sort of thing his father, jokingly, might have told him to do.

The TV blared on. They'd found a body, and were bringing it down. He didn't particularly want to hear about it: he leaned into the ambulance and flicked the TV off. When he turned around again, the thin blonde-haired woman who he'd exchanged a few words with was standing there looking at him. She looked tired.

"One," she said.

"What?"

"One person dead. Not twenty."

He stared at her for a moment, then it clicked. He shrugged. "I know."

"You think that counts for something?" she asked. "Anything at all?"

 _Ah, kid. If you think it's going to be alright just because one person died instead of twenty, if you keep your faith just because nothing's ripped into_ your _world yet, if you believe so bad- you might as well get a jar of sand and keep it by your bed, so you can keep the Sandman at bay._

"I don't know," he answered.

"Me neither," she said, and she walked away. Duane watched her go, and then turned his attention to his surroundings. He could see some people loading what had to be a dead body into the back of an ambulance, and was reminded, once more, of standing in a hospital room full of corpses. Scratches on the floor and dents in the walls...

He turned away.

The sun rose, blood-red.


	42. THE THIRD AFTERMATH part 2

June 19th, 2004, 4:22

Peter attempted to dress his wounds- he'd gotten pretty good at doing such things- and sat on the bed with MJ. The TV was still on, and MJ's attention was almost entirely on that.

"When your parents get here, I'm going to leave," he explained to her. "Would seem like too much of a coincidence, otherwise, me being here. Then I'll come back in a hour or so. Okay?"

MJ nodded. "Sure," she said flatly.

Peter tried to think of something to say, and nothing seemed right. So he just sat down, and watched the TV with her.

"The body has yet to be identified," the British reporter was saying. She looked exhausted. "The man was carrying weapons, and a small glider similar to the one used by the Green Goblin two years ago. The police are trying to find Spider-Man, to question him, but there is of yet no sign..."

"We shouldn't have left," MJ said. She had a crumpled tissue in her hands, and was turning it over and over, ripping it to shreds. "We ran away..."

"No, we didn't," Peter said fiercely. He put his hand on her shoulder. He realised, with a grimace, that it hadn't really hit him yet, that Harry was _dead_. He hoped and prayed that the pain would stay away. "It'll be okay, MJ. I promise."

" _How can it be_?" she almost shouted.

Peter didn't answer. He looked out of the window, and saw a cab pulling up. "Your parents are here, MJ. I've gotta go. I'll jump out of the window, go home, get changed, and meet you back here. Okay?"

She just stared up at him, and nodded ever so slightly.

"I love you," he said, and left.

*

June 19th, 2004, 4:23

Madeline Watson burst into the room. Her daughter was sitting on the bed, and although she was crying Madeline had never felt so relieved in her life.

"Mary!" she almost screamed, and ran across the room and hugged her. "Thank God," she whispered. "Oh, thank god you're alright..."

Phil stood in the doorway awkwardly.

"Mom, it's alright," MJ said, almost struggling out of her embrace. "It's alright, I'm fine-"

"I thought I was going to watch you _die_ ," Madeline said, and the last word was a dark, frightened hiss. "Oh, thank God you're okay." She let go of her, although slowly. Phil went to the TV and turned the volume down.

"What happened?" Madeline demanded, clasping her daughter's hand. "How did you get there in the first place? Where's Spider-Man now?"

MJ swallowed, and her eyes flicked to the window for just a second.

"I don't know," she said, very slowly. "And I got there 'cos someone...kidnapped me. Cos they figure I mean something to Spider-Man, cos I was taken to the bridge that one time." At that, the tears seemed to dry, if only a little, and she turned her face away.

Phil knew she was lying. When she lied she looked like him.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said. "Okay." The words sounded very wrong coming from him, even he could tell. He slumped down on a chair.

MJ started to cry again. She turned away from her parents, and went to the window.

"Someone died today," she sobbed. "Right in front of me."

"Oh, Mary-"

While Madeline attempted to comfort her daughter, Phil looked around the room. On the table, amongst neatly arranged photographs of friends and family- none of which he was in- there was a gold chain with a heart on the end. He picked it up.

"I gave you this," he said.

MJ barely looked at him. "Yes," she said. She walked away from the window again, and sat on the bed. She blew her nose on a tissue Madeline offered her. "Oh god. I need to...sleep or eat or _something_!" She was becoming hysterical. Madeline just stroked her hair.

"Oh, MJ," she said sadly.

"Where's Peter?" Phil asked.

MJ looked at him. For a few seconds. "He'll come soon, I think," she said. And then she leaned against her mother, and turned away from him.

*

June 19th, 2004, 5:00

Upon getting home from the scene of the battle, J. Jonah Jameson had called an emergency meeting of the _Bugle_ staff. Seven of them were now in his living room, and they were either slumped half-asleep on the sofas or looking at him with expressions that suggested they were ready to kill. John, too, was there.

"Right," Jameson announced, not quite suceeding in keeping the glee out his voice. "Go over the facts, Robbie."

Robbie sighed, stood up, and cleared his throat. "At around two am this morning, Mary Jane Watson was kidnapped and put in a taxi suspended in a web in mid-air. Her kidnappers- the Sandman, and an unnamed accomplice- challenged Spider-Man to a confrontation, presumably using her as bait. Spider-Man arrived not long after 2:30, fought with both of them, and then a while later- at about 3:05- another man showed up, riding a glider similar to the one used by the Green Goblin two years ago. Although it's not confirmed yet, that man was probably Harry Osborn, son of the late Norman. The pair of them brought down and presumably killed the Sandman, and after that, we're not quite sure."

"Some people think they saw another man at some point," Hoffman piped up, a coffee cup in hand. "On the higher levels."

"Good, good," Jameson said. "Carry on."

"We do know, though, that Osborn- if it was him- was wounded at some point during the fight. He is now dead. Mary Jane Watson seemed to come out of the whole thing relatively unscathed, and was taken home by Spider-Man. Presumably she's still there now. We don't know where Spider-Man is, or what happened to the second attacker, although there doesn't seem to be any trace of him. And...that's pretty much it, I'm afraid." Robbie sat down, with the dignity of a king. Jameson looked thoughtful.

"So whatever way you look at it, at least one person's dead?"

"Yep."

Jameson drummed his fingers on his desk, and then a grin broke out.

"I love the smell of tragedy in the morning," he said, and took a drink from Hoffman's coffee cup. There was a pause.

"Well, what are we all standing around here for?" he shouted joyously.  "It's five in the morning, you lot should be in work by eight! You all meet me in the office in three hours, or you're fired!" There were some muntinous mutterings from behind him, which he ignored. It was going to be a good day. "What are you waiting for? This story has everything! Spider-Man, at least two villains -one of whom is a giant sand monster- a damsel in distress, whom we can only hope someone got some good ass shots of- you people should be down on your knees thanking me for all this! Now get to work!"

People started to file, grumbling, from the room.

"Wait!" Jameson called. "Does anyone know where Parker is?"

"No," Robbie said, and Hoffman shook his head.

"Kid's been a goddamn _punk_ lately. If you see him, tell him if he doesn't have any photos he's fired."

"Will do, boss."

Gradually, everyone left. Jameson grinned wildly, clapped his hands together, turned around- and saw John. He lowered his hands.

John folded his arms.

"Dad," he said, "We really need to talk."

"No we don't."

"I was in love with Mary Jane," John said pointedly. "If you do anything to compromise her privacy or peace of mind you'll have to answer to me. Come on, you should know this by now."

"The woman knows Spider-Man," Jonah shot back in reply. "It's obvious now. If we want to get to him- find out who he is- we go through her."

"And that makes you better than the Sandman how, exactly?"

Jameson folded his arms and smirked. " _I_ don't wear a mask."

"Nor did he, Dad."

Jameson considered that. "You're right. Damn." He paused for a moment. "But _I_ have control over this newspaper, boy, and not you. You should stick to playing football on the moon. It's what you're good at."

There was a silence. John looked away. Jameson went back to his desk-

"If you give even a damn about me," John suddenly said, with steel in his voice, "you won't hurt her." He went to the door. "Come on. You've achieved so much success in life. You don't want to be a bad parent." The final sentence was spoken so fiercely that it geniunely shocked Jameson, and he was very hard to shock. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

The door was thrown open, and John made his exit, marching determinedly down the corridor. Away from him. Jameson stared after him, his mouth open- and then he spoke.

"Come back, John," he said irritably. "Come on. Let's talk."

*

June 19th, 2004, 5:29

The television was off. Phil and Madeline sat next to their daughter.

"Was Peter down in the crowd with us, MJ?" Madeline asked gently. "I didn't see him."

"He might have been trying to get in, to get to me." MJ said. She had stopped crying now, although there was a deep sadness in her eyes. "I don't know. But he'll be here soon, I think."

"I'm sorry we weren't there," Phil said. He was aware he sounded quite stupid. "To stop you gettin' taken."

"You couldn't have stopped him," MJ said darkly. She seemed very far away for a moment. "Only one person could, so he did."

Phil looked at the heart on the chain, still lying discarded on the table.

"I would," he muttered. "I'd have tried."

There was a knock on the door. MJ ran to it.

"Peter!" she yelled.

"MJ," Peter said, and hugged her tight. "Mrs and Mr Watson," he said, once he let her go. He gave Madeline a smile, and Phil the briefest of nods. "MJ, what happened?"

MJ started up with the explanation Phil had already heard, so he turned away. He looked out of the window. Far away in the distance he thought he could see three or four helicopters, and lights, and suddenly it hit him, _really_ hit him. She could have _died._

"Thank God you're safe," he heard Peter say.

 _Yes, thank God_ , he thought. Then he sat down on the bed, watched his wife and daughter, and did nothing.

*

June 20th, 2004:

Emma Marko stood at the door, staring out into the night.

"S'pose I should really thank you," she said with a sigh.

Her husband appeared behind her. "For what?"

"For not killing," she said, "when it really came down to it."

"Couldn't."

"Yeah."

Penny walked slowly down the stairs, and Emma went to help her. She lifted her down.

"Is Daddy going again?" Penny asked, as soon as her feet touched the floor.

"Yes, sweetheart, he is," Emma said. "Away for a bit. To get you money, for your medicine. _Properly_ , this time."

"And you'll come back," Penny asked him, eyes wide. "Right?"

"Yes." Flint Marko said.

Emma looked at him.

"And I swear to you, Penny, I won't hurt anyone else. Not a soul."

"I know," Penny said thoughtfully.

Flint, Emma and Penny made their way to the back yard. It was quiet out there, apart from the odd siren in the distance.

"You won't get caught?" Emma said, looking her husband up and down. "I mean- you know, Flint-"

"I won't," he said. "Promise." Then he looked at Penny, dug about in his pocket, and produced a gold locket. "Look, Penny. I kept it."

"I knew you would," she said seriously. "When will you be back?"

"Soon," he said. He paused. "See a Penny, pick it up, and all day long you'll have good luck." He reached forward, picked her up, and put her down again. "I'll see you soon."

He vanished into the air, all in one go, like a sandcastle crumbling. Penny stared at the space where he had been, half frowning and half smiling.

"He'll be alright, won't he?" she asked her mother.

"Yeah," Emma said, looking in the same direction. "I think so."


	43. THE THIRD AFTERMATH part 3

June 22rd, 2004:

Madeline Watson opened the door to find her husband there. He was clutching a carrier bag, and looking downcast.

"Yeah?" she asked warily.

"Is MJ in?" he asked.

"Yeah. She's asleep," Madeline answered. She looked at him critically. "What do you want?"

He held out the carrier bag. "Got you something," he muttered. "That's all."

Madeline took the bag. It was heavier than she expected. She thought it might contain a glass bottle, probably alcohol. "Thank you," she said.

"I'll go then, shall I?"

"Yes. If you don't mind."

Phil started to walk away. "Will you tell MJ I was here?"

"Yes," she answered, and closed the door.

*

She walked through to the kitchen and took out what was in the bag. It was a glass jar, filled with sand. Her first instinct was suspicion, strangely enough. She picked it up and shook it. Nothing happened. She put it down again.

She glanced out of the window. Photographers had been sniffing around. The first time, she had run out and screamed at them- she didn't know what tactic she would try next. But there was nobody there.

The stairs creaked. She put some toast in the toaster and hunted around for the newspaper. When she found it, she put it down again. The headline wasn't nice.

MJ came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing a yellow pair of pyjamas that were slightly too small for her, and Madeline's old blue slippers. "Morning, Mom," she said, and took her place at the table. Madeline shifted the newspaper away from her and dropped it in the bin. "Morning, sweetheart."

MJ reached for the glass jar. "What's this?" she said.

"Your father brought it," Madeline said, searching the drawers for a butter knife. "I don't know what it's for."

MJ picked it up and turned it around in her hands. "Me neither," she said quietly. She stared at it although not entirely sure it was there. "Sand, though..." She trailed off. Madeline put a plate of toast in front of her.

"Dear, why hasn't Peter come by to see you?"

MJ almost jumped. "He just...hasn't. Yet," she said quickly. She took a bite of toast and looked away. "Actually, Mom...we kinda had an arguement. Before all the bad stuff happened. A bad one. We don't...know where we stand. At the moment."

"Oh," Madeline said, surprised. "Well, he could have at least phoned."

MJ said nothing. She gradually finished her toast, sighed, and stood up. "I'm gonna go get changed." She headed for the door, and then turned around. "And Mom? I'm gonna go back to my flat today or tomorrow, if that's okay. I appreciate all this, but...I can't stay here forever."

"I understand," Madeline said. She had been surprised her daughter had stayed with her as long as she did. "Don't worry."

"Thanks," she said. "Is that today's paper?"

Madeline saw she was looking at the dustbin, and before she could stop her she'd fished the paper out. "MJ, don't-"

MJ straightened the paper out and read aloud. "Spider-Man's priorities start to show: the man who allegedly saved his life lies in the morgue and he still won't come forward." Her voice grew high and angry. "Today the _Bugle_ asks of Spider-Man, if you have any respect at all for your supposed friend's sacrifice-" She stopped reading in sudden fury, and threw the paper down on the table. "How _could_ they?" she spat. "The _bastards_ -"

"At least there's nothing in there about you," Madeline pointed out quietly. "Or at least, there hasn't been."

MJ picked up the paper and flipped through the pages.

"But-" she began, and then she trailed off and stopped. "You're right. I suppose-" She stopped again.

"It's John, MJ," Madeline said. "I think he's been pulling strings behind the scenes. It's his father owns the paper, after all."

"Why would he do that?" MJ asked, her voice cracking a bit.

"Surely you know," Madeline answered. She took MJ's plate away from the table and rinsed it in the sink. "You go get changed then, sweetheart."

MJ put the newspaper back on the table and hurried away. Madeline watched her go.

Sunlight hit the jar of sand, and lit it up. Every speck of dust in the room suddenly shone. Madeline lifted the jar from the table, and stared right into it. Nothing.

But she didn't open it, or empty it, or break it.

"Mom?" MJ called from the stairs. "I'm gonna go out in a minute."

*

MJ walked to the Bugle offices, her stomach churning. She hadn't told her mother exactly where she was going, although she thought she might have guessed. She had also taken a few things from the house to bring back to the flat- food, clothes, and the jar of sand. She hadn't been able to bring herself to throw it away, or any such thing, and although it had been given to her mother, Madeline didn't seem to want it.

She turned the corner onto the road where the offices were.

_John might not even be there. And if he is, what will you say? What will you do?_

She approached the building. Upon seeing it, she realised that she just _couldn't_ go inside, and she was furious at her cowardice. So she slowly made her way to a bench, and sat there, and stared up the office windows. John could be in any one of them. In his father's office, maybe, talking to him. Or getting coffee, or walking down the stairs.

_I'm sorry, John. I'm too afraid._

She closed her eyes and thought. Thought about falling- off bridges, into fire, into webs- thought about Peter, and Harry, and John, and her father. Of fighting and death and monsters and sand crumbling beneath her feet.

_It's time to stop yourself from falling, kid. Time to reach out and hold on. You don't have to be caught. You can still survive._

She squeezed her eyelids tight to stop herself from crying, and then opened them again. There was someone sitting next to her on the bench- for one wild, relieved moment she thought it was John, almost opened her mouth to say his name- but it wasn't. It was a man she didn't know.

He was looking at her, though.

"I know you," he said. "Mary Jane Watson."

MJ suddenly had the urge to get up and run, or to give him an earful for staring at her so impolitely, but she didn't. She didn't have the energy. "Yeah," she said glumly. She was going to have to get used to this. Again.

"I'm Duane Stamos," he said. "'Course, you don't know me. But I was at the battle. I was one of the paramedics." He spoke like he had merely been present at a film set, or a rock concert.

"I see," MJ said, not knowing where he was going with this.

"It's _weird_ , meeting you like this," he said, almost in awe. He paused. "What was it like?"

"What?" she said testily.

"Being up there in that taxi."

"Well, what do you think it was like? It was scary." She got up from the bench. "I'm going."

Duane Stamos said, "What's that?" and pointed to her bag. MJ looked at it. The jar of sand was sticking out. "A jar of sand," she snapped. "Would you-"

"Where'd you get it?" he asked, and something in his tone of voice made her opt not to scream her answer at him.

"From my father," she said. "I don't know what it is. I suppose you do?"

"Yeah," he murmured. He reached into his jacket pocket for some cigarettes. "There were loads of kids running around at that construction site. Goddamn irresponsable parents. Anyway, I heard the kids yelling that if you got a jar or bottle or something and filled it with sand from the battleground, then you'd be able to keep the Sandman in there, trapped in seperate jars, and he wouldn't be able to come back." He lit his cigarette. "Some of the kids did that, I think, although god knows where they got jars or bottles from. The trashcans, probably. But anyway..."

MJ took the jar out of her bag.

"I imagine some people- the superstitious, probably- went back later and took sand from the ground," Duane continued. "It's rather strange."

"Yes," MJ said. She held the jar close to her eyes, staring right into it. The rest of the world seemed to disappear around her: she stared and stared and stared. There was nothing there, no movement, nothing.

"I'll be off, then," Duane said. He gave her a strange little smile. "I've been trying to sell articles to the _Bugle_. They seem to be on the same wavelength as me." He headed off towards the building, smoking his cigarette, and MJ almost followed. But she didn't. She stood there for a while, jar in hand, and then she went back home.

*

Madeline had made chicken pie and chocolate cake for supper. The two of them sat calmly, eating.

"I know what the jar of sand's all about, Mom," MJ said, gesturing to it. It was still in her bag, which was now on the table. "I met this guy, he recognized me...he was obnoxious, but he saw the jar and knew what it meant."

"What does it mean?" Madeline asked.

"It was something some kids started, I think," MJ said. "They said-" She took the jar out of the bag. "They said pieces of the Sandman were in there. And if you had a jar, you were stopping him from coming back."

Madeline looked thoughtful. She took of bite of chicken.

"MJ," she asked. "Do you know what actually happened to the Sandman?"

Peter had told her, during those awful hours in front of the television- she could remember quite clearly. But she didn't know what to say.

"I don't think he's a threat anymore, Mom, and I don't think he's dead, but I don't know where he is or anything."

Madeline seemed reasonably satisfied with that. "Well," she said with a sigh. "I hope not to see him again. Him or any of them." She seemed very far away all of a sudden. "So your father was giving me one of the men who took you away."

"Yes," MJ said uncomfortably. "I guess he was."

Madeline pushed a pea around her plate. She was staring into space. "How...odd." she finally said.

"Mom," MJ said.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can I have the jar?"

Madeline looked at her. "I...yes, yes you can. I guess so. What are you going to do with it?"

MJ put her cutlery down. "Come with me, Mom," she said. She picked up the jar from her bag, and walked through to the back door. She opened it. The sun was just beginning to set outside, and the air was humid. It looked like a thunderstorm was on the way. It might clear the air a bit.

"MJ, what are you doing?"

"You'll see. Here-"

She glanced around the yard, and went to a concrete fencepost. She breathed in the harsh summer air-

_-it's time to stop yourself from falling, kid-_

-and she smashed the jar against the post. It broke instantly, and sand and glass was scattered on the ground, falling like from an hourglass. She watched it. Then she shook the remaining sand from the remaining piece of the jar, and turned to her mother.

Madeline was gawping at her.

"Put- put the broken glass down," she said. "You'll cut yourself."

MJ went to the trashcan and dropped it in there. "Yeah," she said, searching for the right words. "I hope you don't mind that I did that."

"No," Madeline said. She looked at the ground, at the sand, as if trying to stare it down. "The Sandman wasn't in there."

"No," MJ agreed. "Could've been, though. That's what the kids think."

"Yes," Madeline said, and gave a little shiver. "Come on in, MJ. It's going to rain soon, I think. There'll be a storm. Come in."

MJ did. Madeline ushered her through the door, still staring at the pile of sand by the fencepost- and then she followed her daughter inside.

"Eat up, sweetheart," she said, gesturing at the table. "And thank you," she found herself saying. "I wish your father hadn't given me that awful thing."

"He had his reasons, probably," MJ murmured.

They sat and finished their meal. Outside, it started to rain and then started to pour, and thunder echoed through the sky. The sand in the garden was washed away by morning, and Phil came by a few days later, and cleared away all of the glass.


	44. THE THIRD AFTERMATH part 4

June 24th, 2004

Peter sat on the sofa in his aunt's apartment. She brought him a cup of coffee, and sat down next to him, looking at him expectantly.

"Me and MJ broke up," Peter said quietly. "I mean...it was before you came to see me, before the battle, everything. We broke up. And I did-" He swallowed. "Some nasty things. To hurt her."

May just drank her coffee. "What kind of things?"

"I took another girl to the Jazz Club. You know, she works there now, she was gonna sing. I wanted to spite her. And...and...while I was there, there was a fight..." He shook his head. "I _started_ a fight. And when she tried to stop me, I hit her. It was an accident, but...I hurt her." He stared down at the carpet.

"That doesn't sound like you at all," May said delicately. Then she said, "When was the last time you saw her?"

"After the battle. I went to her flat, and then I left her with her parents."

"I see. You haven't called her?"

"I don't know what to..." He shook his head. "One of our best friends is _dead_ , Aunt May. And she was in danger, and she's...she's always gonna be in danger. Because of Spider-Man," he finished lamely. "I don't know what to do."

Aunt May stood up, went to the sink and rinsed her coffee cup. "I'm giving piano lessons again, you know. For a little extra cash." She didn't look at him, just stared thoughtfully out of the window. "I had some kids in yesterday. Their minds weren't really on their lessons, though, I suspect. They were all talking about something else."

"About what happened with Spider-Man?"

"Indeed," May said. She walked back to her seat. "It was all they could talk about. About Spider-Man, and Spider-Man's friend, and the lady in the web. How so very brave they all were." She sat down. "How they didn't give up and didn't stop until the city was safe again. How..." She searched for the word. " _Amazing_ , it all was."

Peter couldn't look at her.

"They played games for a bit. Running around, pretending to swing from things, pretending to throw bricks and bombs. It was all I could do not to send them all home." She smiled, and gave him a look Peter found impossible to read. "To think of it, Peter. Of those kids growing up in the care of such fine people."

"Yeah," Peter croaked. He drunk the remainder of his coffee. Silence hung in the air for a long time.

"You and MJ will be fine," May said finally. "I know you will." She took his coffee cup from him. "When's the funeral?" she asked.

"Tomorrow."

*

June 25th, 2004

It rained.

Peter- May and MJ by his side, although one of them seemed barely there- wandered numbly around the graveyard, talking to people. He knew most of them- Gwen and her father, Bernard, a few of the old teachers from highschool, some Oscorp employees who he vaguely recognized. Even Flash Thompson was there.

"Hey," he said, grabbing Peter as he passed. "Peter? Wanted to say sorry."

"Thanks, Flash."

Flash nodded. He looked nervous, and vaguely guilty. "I know we never...liked each other, back in high school. But...if you want...I got plenty alcohol, if you want to sit around and not talk about old times."

"Thanks," Peter said again, meaning it. He attempted to make conversation. "Um...how's Liz?"

"She didn't come," Flash said, with a slight frown. "I think she wanted to, but she's been kinda sick lately." He sighed. "This _sucks_."

"You're telling me."

"He died saving Spider-Man, right? That's what the papers say."

"Yeah."

"But he _hated_ him."

"I guess he changed his mind."

They stood there in awkward silence. The rain continued to fall.

"I gotta go," Flash said. "See ya around."

"See ya."

Flash went away. Peter stood on his own, staring at the ground, watching his shoes sink into the mud. And then he walked to the gravestone, and stood there, just looking at it.

"I notice Spider-Man didn't show up," he heard someone say loudly in the distance. He ignored it.

 _HARRY OSBORN,_ the gravestone said. _BELOVED SON & FRIEND_.

May walked up to him, Gwen walking alongside her. Gwen put her hand, very awkwardly, on Peter's shoulder. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he answered.

"Um, it's forgotten," she said, and it took him a second or two to realise what she meant. "Peter?"

"Sure," he said, only just meeting her eyes. "Yeah."

Gwen withdrew her hand, but continued speaking. "I'm sorry, Peter. About your friend. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he answered.

Gwen swallowed, anxiously glanced at May, and carried on. "Um...Spider-Man saved my life. As you probably know. I...I think...I don't know what really happened last week, and I guess none of us ever will, but..." She trailed off. "I can't get this right. I'm sorry, Peter."

"I know what you mean," Peter said, not meeting her eyes.

"Yeah," Gwen murmured. She looked desperately uncomfortable, and rather sad. "I'm sorry, Peter. I really am." She backed away then, and hurried across the grass, a blur of black and white against the green. Peter sighed, and turned to his aunt.

"Speak to Mary Jane," May said quietly. "She's hurting. So are you." And then she walked away too, her head held high in the rain. Peter remained where he was. He felt utterly and completely miserable. _Wretched_ , he thought the word might be.

"Peter," MJ said.

He turned around and looked at her.

"It..." she said, biting her lip. "It...wasn't your fault. You know that, right? None of it was."

"Right," he said quietly.

Neither of them said anything else, and the rain poured down. Then, finally, MJ spoke.

"I'll...I'll see you," she whispered. "My parents are here."

He looked at her, suddenly anxious.

"Goodbye," she said, and she walked away, not looking back. Peter watched her go. It seemed like he stayed there for _years_ , watching her leave- but in truth it was less than a minute. And then she was gone, and he remained just standing there, feeling hopelessly, horrendously alone.

"Come back," he whispered.

Nobody did.

*

Slowly, the rain started to cease.

Most everyone had left the graveyard, and Peter was alone there. He walked a little way, through the wet grass, and stopped opposite another grave.

"Hey," he said, and brushed some leaves out of the way. "Hey, Uncle Ben." He put down the umbrella and held it at his side. "I guess you know what happened," he began sadly. "About Harry. It was my fault. Sort of. Like it was with you, it was _enough_ of my fault." He blinked. "I never even thanked him. He saved my life and I didn't thank him."

The wind blew through the trees, and the sun came out a little.

"I don't want everyone I love," Peter said fiercely, "to end up in this graveyard." He rubbed his eyes. "I don't know what to do. I could've screwed up even worse than I did, I guess. I just..." He sighed. "I don't know. Don't even know what to think. I bet if you were alive, you'd tell me not to blame myself."

He picked a bit of twig off the top of the gravestone.

"I'll go," he said quietly. "I just wish I could make it right."

Nothing happened at all- no voices, no ghosts, no sudden sunlight, nothing. Peter stood and waited and thought, and then he walked away. He trudged to the edge of the graveyard, made it out, and sat down on a bench. He put his head in his hands for a few seconds, then raised it again.

He sat there for a long time. People walked past him and didn't give him a second glance. Blurred, disconnected thoughts and bits of conversation moved around his mind.

_The world they're living in, it's a different place because of me- mask or not, you're different- he would be very proud of you, you know-_

_-none of that matters, Peter, you're my friend-_

A small gang of kids ran past.

"I wanna be Spider-Man!" one of them was yelling. "Why'd you always get to be him?"

"'Cos I _do_ ," said one of the girls. "You can be Spider-Man's friend. Then you save him."

"But he's _dead_ , Susie. The TV said he died."

"Don't care!"

They disappeared into the distance. Peter watched them go. Then he sighed, and stood.

_hey come back, it'll start again in a few minutes-_

He looked back at the graveyard, and then went home. He walked slowly down the street, just a face in the crowds. When he got back, he changed into his costume, and then pulled his grey suit and jacket on over that. He opened the small chest in the cupboard, pulled out his one remaining mask, and put it in his pocket. Then he went to the window, and flung himself out into the air.

He stopped at the graveyard one more time, then he went to the Jazz Club.   
 


	45. THE THIRD AFTERMATH part 5

June 26th 2004:

It was two-and-a-half hours since Christine Steinhauer had got off the aeroplane. She had walked from the airport to her destination, the sun shining down on her, a newspaper dated from two days ago tucked into her bag. She had stopped only once on the way, to buy some flowers, and then she had entered the graveyard.

The grave was easy to find. Easier than she had expected. The funeral, she had learned, had taken place only a day ago, and it was covered in flowers and tributes. She put her own small offering down at the front, and then stood back and looked at Harry Osborn's grave. She thought she should say something, although she didn't know what, or what good it would do.

"It's me," she finally said. "Christine."

As soon as the words left her mouth she felt foolish beyond all imaginings, and turned around, her head hung. And then she noticed something she hadn't noticed before- a woman, sitting on a nearby bench, looking at her.

Silence.

"Hello?" Christine tried.

The woman stood up quickly. She wasn't really dressed for a graveyard- she was wearing a yellow t-shirt and jeans, and no black whatsoever. There was a notebook in her hands. She was blushing.

"Hello," she answered. "Sorry. Didn't mean-" She turned to go.

"Wait," Christine said. She shook her head. "You don't have to leave because of me. Stay if you want to."

The woman, still blushing, took her seat again. "Sorry," she said. "I just- I didn't mean- I feel out of place here."

"Why?" Christine found herself asking. Unconciously, she began cleaning up the gravestone- brushing leaves out of the way, tidying the flowers up. She had to do something with herself; just standing still seemed impossible.

"I didn't really know him," the woman said hesitantly, pointing to the grave. "Not properly. I only ever met him once. And I feel like I'm intruding, or something."

"You're not," Christine said with a sigh.

"People have been here taking photographs, and...you know, annoying people," the woman continued. "I didn't want to do the same thing."

"You're not," Christine said again. She found herself going to the bench, and sitting down alongside her. "What's your name?"

"Ursula. What's yours?"

"Christine."

Christine looked around the graveyard. Her mind switched back, just for a second, to the graveyard her husband was buried in. She had far too many graveyards to visit, and this was just one more.

" _I_ knew him," she said sadly. "Worked for him, you see."

"At his company?"

"No. I was his housekeeper." She gave a vague, thin smile. "Sort of a friend, too. Maybe."

Ursula said nothing for a few seconds, just turned her notebook over in her hands. "I'm...friends with his friends," she finally said. "They were really upset. I didn't go to the funeral, though. Although I suppose they wouldn't have minded."

Christine couldn't think of an answer to that, other than a nod, and the two of them sat in silence for a while. Then Christine said, in a flat, low voice, unable to keep it inside any longer-

"It was his father, then."

"What?"

"The first Green Goblin. It was his father. And that's how come all this happened."

"Oh. Yes," Ursula said. "It was in the news."

"Yeah. I read it."

They were silent, and Christine felt a wave of utter _misery_ , and guilt, pass through her. She was alone, she was hopeless, she had only just recieved answers to her countless questions, she had not kept an eye on Emily's son- and now one more person was dead. Sacrifice all around and she was _drowning_ , so it seemed. She blinked furiously, but it didn't work. She wiped the tears angrily away.

"Harry did something very brave, I think." Ursula spoke up suddenly. She shot Christine an anxious look. "Here, um...I have a tissue." She dug about in her pockets, found one and handed it over. Christine held it uselessly to her eyes.

 _That thing in the house, Christine, oh, it was only your guilt,_ she thought wearily. _Just the thing that preys on Bad Parents..._

She realised, to her mild surprise, that she had left the bench and sunk to the ground by the gravestone, sitting amongst the flowers and the notes. She remained there, not caring that Ursula was still watching her, barely even noticing the other woman until she spoke again.

"Um," Ursula said, in a voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid of waking someone sleeping, "I thought I'd say...it was all his choice, I think. He...wanted to put things right. In the end it was all up to him."

Christine looked up at her.

"I think," Ursula said again. She hung her head. "I don't really know. I don't really know exactly what happened. But I saw him fight. And I don't think he died on his own, either." She looked up, nervously, and Christine looked back. Slowly, she stood up. She still didn't know what to say; all the words were getting stuck in her mind.

"Who are you?" she finally settled on. "You seem to know an awful lot."

Ursula shifted uncomfortably. "No," she said. "No more than anyone else. And no more than you," she suddenly said. "I mean, you knew him better than I did."

"Yes," Christine said. She went back to the bench and sat down, hunched over like an old woman. "Spider-Man was with him when he died, you think?"

"Yeah."

"I don't understand."

"Me neither," Ursula said, a little too quickly, and with a sigh. "I...I should probably go." She stood up, and stood by the grave, staring down- looking at it for one last moment before getting on with her life, Christine assumed. She wondered if the other woman had left a note there herself, and what it had said- _I didn't know you, but I wish I had, and I'm sorry?-_ but suddenly Ursula stared at a particular spot, froze for a second in surprise, reached down, and picked something up. She turned to Christine.

"Look at this," she said.

Christine walked over, and looked. Ursula was holding up a note. It was written on a thin piece of notebook paper, and had only three words on it, written carefully in capitals:

 _THANK YOU._   
_-SPIDER-MAN_

"It was here," Ursula explained. "On the grave, with all this other stuff." She gave it to Christine, and Christine turned it round and round and looked at it, half-hoping that there would be another message scrawled there that only she could see; but there was nothing.

"I see," she finally said, and carefully put it back. She and Ursula stood in silence. In the background the city went on- sirens wailed and tyres screeched- and Christine wondered if Spider-Man was out there somewhere, and what he was thinking and if he was grieving.

"I suppose I'll never know," she finally said, "what really went on. Will I?"

"You might," Ursula said hesitantly, and her hands went to her notebook, which was tucked under her arm. "I. Um." She put her hand on Christine's shoulder- warily, maybe, but Christine was glad of the contact. "I should go now. Got things to do."

"Okay," Christine said. She offered a small smile- Ursula returned it, and then withdrew her hand and walked away. Christine didn't turn around to watch her, but after a while she heard the graveyard gate creak and then close. She was all alone.

She didn't know what else to say or do- she was still caught in the grey area between anger and despair. She turned her eyes away from the grave, because it felt like it was starting to gaze back at her-

-and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something. Another grave, a little further back.

 _EMILY OSBORN,_ it said. _BELOVED MOTHER AND WIFE_.

Christine approached it warily, staring down at it, almost afraid that it would vanish. She found herself reaching a hand out to touch it- it was real. Real stone. A real grave.

"Hello, Emily," she said.

The grave was well-kept, almost completely free of leaves or moss. Someone had been taking care of it.

"I came back," Christine said slowly. "I hope...I hope I got it right. I'm not sure I did. I don't know if I helped, or what. But I think I understand, a bit," she whispered. "There was the Goblin, and it wanted Harry, and it didn't get him."

Nothing happened. Christine backed away again. She stood still for five or six seconds, thinking, and then she figured she'd probably said all she needed to. "Bye," she said quietly, and stepped back into the silence of the world.

After a few seconds, she started walking. She walked past the rows and rows of graves and reached the gate- a young man in a green sweater was entering through it, clutching two bunches of flowers. He held it open for her with his free hand.

"Thank you," she murmured. She walked down the road, memories echoing in her mind-

- _I've lost a lot. And I want it back so bad. What do I do Harry what do I do?_ -

-and then she returned to her hotel room and sat down on the bed. She cried for a bit, although she was well aware she was crying for _everything_ \- her husband, her mother, her son, herself. Finally, once she felt it was over, she wiped her eyes. She went to the window and stared out, gritted her teeth, and after a few minutes, started packing.


	46. EPILOGUE

Ursula sat in her bedroom, at her desk. Her diary was wide open on the table, and underneath the last entry she was writing something. She was nearly done.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called, and Peter entered the room. He looked tired, and sad, and was holding a book in his hand. Ursula closed her diary.

"Hi, Peter," she said, and smiled at him. He gave a small smile in return.

"I..." he began, and looked down at the ground, seemingly a little embarrassed. "You know what's been going on, right, Ursula? I mean, about my friend Harry, and Spider-Man, and...what happened."

"Yeah."

He sighed. "Me and Mary Jane, we went to his house this morning, to...sort things out. There's all these legal issues, and we don't know where we stand...but his butler, Bernard, he gave us this to keep," he said. He held out the book. It was old-looking, like a book of fairytales, and dark green. There was something scrawled on the front.

"Who's Emily?" Ursula asked.

"Harry's mother." Peter answered. He let go of the book as Ursula took it. "This was her journal. Bernard said it was left open on the kitchen table, and he'd never seen it before." He looked downcast. "I read it. MJ did too, but it didn't seem right to keep it. And we couldn't just throw it away."

"So you're giving it to me?"

Peter ran a hair through his hair. "Yes. I...well, I've seen you writing in your own diary, and...I wanted to thank you. For putting up with me these last few weeks." He looked at her, and Ursula sensed that he wanted to say a great deal more, _explain_ a great deal more, maybe, but couldn't.

"It's okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."

Peter nodded, smiled, and turned to go. Ursula put the diary down, stepped forward, and hugged him. Peter froze, then hugged back- after about six seconds, Ursula let go. She stood back, and looked at him.

"I'll look after it." she said.

"I know," Peter answered. He looked from her to the desk to the diary, and then -with another, slightly happier, smile- he left the room.

Ursula took her seat again. She picked up the diary and read the first page.

*

Peter returned to his room. MJ was sitting on the bed, staring at the ground, and she looked up when he came in.

"I wonder about that diary," was the first thing she said.

"Me too," Peter murmured. Awkwardly, he sat down next to her. "Are you alright?"

"Not really," she said. "I wish we hadn't gone to the house."

Peter didn't know what to say to that, and kept quiet. MJ carried on regardless. "It brought it all home, I guess. Again." She ran her hands through her hair, and gave him a searching sort of look. "Peter...we need to talk."

"I know," he answered.

"You sure you did the right thing just then? Giving the diary away?"

"I thought you meant..." _Talk about all the other things, about us,_ he wanted to say, but didn't. "Um. I don't know. But I don't want to keep it, and you didn't, and we couldn't have thrown it away." He paused. "She'll look after it."

"Uh-huh," she answered. She fidgeted with the cuffs on her shirt. "And...Peter, I have a lot of things to tell you. Really important things," she whispered.

"Same here," Peter said. "I'll listen, okay?"

"Okay," she said. She looked him in the eye. "I don't know where to start..." She blinked. "Harry made me break up with you, Peter. He said he'd kill you if I didn't. So I played along."

"I guessed as much," Peter said heavily.

"Are you angry?"

"No."

"I forgave him for it. You know...before you turned up. We said everything we had to." She looked away. When Peter said nothing, just quietly mused, she added. "And...Peter...John's been helping us out, I think."

"How?"

"He's trying to keep things out of the papers."

"Wait," Peter said, suddenly anxious, "he doesn't know I'm-"

"No. Don't think so." MJ answered. "I'm gonna write to him," she suddenly said. "Thank him." She glanced, quickly, at Peter. "Ask if he wants to meet. So we can talk."

"Okay," Peter said hesitantly.

"So I can say sorry for what I did to him," she said heavily. She rubbed her eyes. And then she shifted closer to him. "And...this is important...I don't...I won't leave you." she said, quite fiercely. "Alright?"

"Alright," Peter answered, suddenly feeling immense relief. He put his hand on hers. "I won't leave you either."

MJ smiled. It was the first time she had for weeks.

"Thank you, Peter," she said.

*

Ursula put the diary aside.

She had read the first few pages- she would return to it, and soon, but she had work to do. She returned to her own diary, and finished what she had been writing.

_He is arguably the most important figure of the twenty-first century, and yet nobody knows his name. He could be the man sitting opposite you on the subway, or the quiet kid at the back of your college class. He could be anybody you brush past in the city._

She looked at the spot by the door where Peter had been standing.

_Perhaps it is this that makes him a symbol to so many people._

Smiling, she put the pen down, and read over her work. She thought it was quite good. Not perfect- she knew better then to think that- but not bad. And all hers. She would use a pseudonym- her mother's name, she thought- but still hers. Her own book. Ursula Ditkovich's thoughts on history.

She ran her fingers lightly over the page. Then she closed the book, put the two diaries together, and stood up. She went to the window, and opened it, and breathed in the fresh air.

*

Ursula Ditkovich's diary, 15th August 2004:

A lot has happened, diary.

I've been speaking to a lot of people and it looks like my book will have a publisher when it's done- my dad is helping me find contacts. He's not very good at it, but it's the thought that counts, and he's begun to look at me differently, like he suspects I won't be here all my life after all. Or something. Things are different, anyway.

I still speak to Peter. Him and Mary Jane are still together, and sometimes MJ is here, but I don't know where they'll go, or if Peter'll stay in this building or what. I think he might.

He had nightmares for a few weeks after the battle, I heard him. He's had nightmares before, I think, but he screamed in these ones. It must weigh on him so much. I want so much to help him. I hope I am.

Then there's the diary I was given. I've read it many times, over and over, and I always wonder about it. About what might have happened if Emily hadn't married, or if she'd just _lived_...but I guess it's too late for that stuff now. It's all over now. I don't know if everything turned out the way it should have done, or if it could have been better. I don't know if other monsters will come on the scene and tear up the city and frighten the world and try to kill my friends.

I keep thinking about that night. The Final Battle night. About the things I saw. I can remember some of the little things- that man by the ambulance, and _do you think that counts for anything, anything at all?,_ and little kids running around with jars of sand that they'll grow out of and break and let the Sandman free, and my father coming to find me, and walking home, walking and walking and walking, through the crowds and the cars and the aftermath.

I don't know what might happen. But- you know, for all the death and destruction and fear- oh, diary, I want to have a little faith in humanity.

*

15th August 2004:

Christine Steinhauer walked down a quiet New York street, clutching her handbag, trying to calm her nerves. A million conversations were running through her mind.

_We can talk I know we can talk, I'll listen_

She turned the corner; saw the house. Continued on.

_We've all done terrible things to each other_

She walked up the pretty garden path. All around her it was quiet, even peaceful, and she could almost hear her heart beating.

 _Forgive me,_ she thought.

She rang the doorbell.

The door opened.


End file.
